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CONSUELO.. 


AUTHOR  OP  “THE  COUNTESS  OP  RUDOLSTADT,"  “ INDIANA,”  “THE  CORSAIR, ** 
** FARCHON,  THE  CRICKET;  OR,  LA  PETITE  FADETTE,**  <e  THE  LAST  ALDINI," 

**  Jealousy;  or,  tbvbrino,"  “ FIRST  and  TRUE  LOVE,”  “ SIMON,"  ETC. 


"Consuelo,"  by  George  Sand,  stands  in  the  very  highest  niche  accorded  to  fiction, 
it  u an  artistic  and  ideal  romance  of  colossal  power  and  fascination.  Treating  largely 
©f  music  and  musicians,  it  has  an  interest  for  the  cultured  altogether  peculiar  to  itself, 
while  it  is  so  intensely  human  and  realistic  in  every  detail  that  it,  at  the  same  time, 
appeals  strongly  to  the  feelings  of  the  general  reader.  The  plot  is  grandly  woven,  and 
many  of  the  scenes  are  weird  and  thrilling  almost  beyond  description.  Consuelo  is 
an  angelic  character,  with  a pure  and  lofty  soul,  yet  she  is  constantly  beset  with 
temptations  and  surrounded  by  perils.  She  is  an  ideal  creation,  one  of  the  noblest 
beings  ever  drawn,  as  chaste  and  elevated  a woman  as  we  have  ever  loved  and  admired 
in  all  fiction.  The  operatic  scenes  breathe  the  breath  of  real  life,  the  scenes  with 
Count  Albert  in  the  cavern  of  the  Schreckenstein  bewilder  and  astound,  and  the  hero- 
ine’s flight  to  Vienna  is  picturesque  and  adventurous  in  the  extreme.  All  the  charac- 
ters seem  real  beings,  and  their  diversity  shows  the  great  author’s  remarkable  knowl- 
edge of  humanity.  The  whole  book  is  written  with  rare  power  and  delicacy.  It  is 
universally  admitted  to  be  the  master-piece  of  one  of  the  most  wonderful  novelists  of 
tiie  age.  “ Consuelo  " should  be  read  by  everybody,  as,  no  doubt,  it  will  be  in  its 
present  cheap  but  attractive  shgpe. 


A NOVEL. 


Translated  from  the  French 


BY  FAYETTE  ROBINSON. 


NEW  YORK  : 


fHE  F.  M.  LUPTON  PUBLISHING  COMPACTS* 
\ Nos.  7%-7()  Walker  Street 


CONSUELO 


CHAPTER  L 

"Yks,  yes,  young  ladies,  toss  your  heads  as  much  as  you  please; 

the  wisest  and  best  among  you  is But  I shall  not  say  it ; for  she  is 

the  only  one  of  my  class  who  has  a particle  of  modesty,  and  I should 
fear,  were  I to  name  her,  that  she  would  forthwith  lose  that  uncom- 
mon virtue  which  I could  wish  to  see  in  you ” 

“I*  nomiae  Patria,  et  Pllil,  et  SpiritaB  Snoots,” 

sang  Costanza,  impudently. 

“ Amen  1 ” exclaimed  all  the  other  girls,  in  chorus. 

“ Vile  slanderer,”  said  Clorinda,  making  a pretty  little  mouth  at 
him,  and  giving  the  bony  and  wrinkled  fingers,  which  the  singing 
master  had  suffered  to  rest  idly  on  the  keys  of  the  silent  instrument, 
a little  tap  with  the  handle  of  her  fan. 

“ Go  on,  young  ladies— go  on,”  said  the  old  professor,  with  the  re- 
signed and  submissive  air  of  one  who  for  forty  years  had  had  to  suf- 
fer for  six  hours  daily  the  airs  and  contradictions  of  successive  gene- 
rations of  female  pupils.  “ It  is  not  the  less  true,”  added  he,  putting 
his  spectacles  into  their  case,  and  his  snuff-box  into  his  pocket,  with- 
out raising  his  eyes  towards  the  angry  and  railing  group,  “ that  this 
chaste,  this  docile,  this  studious,  this  attentive,  this  good  child,  is  not 
you,  signora  Clorinda:  nor  you,  Signora  Costanza;  nor  you  either, 
Signora  Zulietta*  neither  is  it  Rosina;  and  still  less  Michela— ” 

“ In  that  case,  it  is  IX 99 
“No  it  is  I!” 

“ By  no  means ; it  is  II n 
“ ’TisI!” 

“ ”Ti3  1 ! ” screamed  out  all  at  once,  with  their  clear  and  thrilling 
voices,  some  fifty  fair  or  dark-haired  girls,  darting  like  a flock  of  sea- 
birds on  some  poor  shell -fish  left  stranded  by  the  waves. 

The  sliell-fish,  that  is  to  say,  the  master — and  I maintain  that  no 
other  metaphor  could  so  well  express  his  angular  movements,  his 
filmy  eyes,  liis  red-streaked  cheeks,  and  more  especially  the  innumer- 
able stiff,  white,  and  pointed  curls  of  professional  periwig,  the  master, 
I say,  compelled  thrice  to  seat  himself  after  he  had  risen  to  go  away, 
aut  calm  and  indifferent  as  the  shell-fish  itself,  rocked  and  hardened 

(21) 


rms,  had  long  to  be  ea  treated  to  declare  wh ki  of  hie  ptspJk 
nred  the  praises  of  which  he  was  usually  so  sparing,  but  of  which 
he  now  showed  himself  so  prodigal.  At  last,  yielding  as  if  with 
regret  to  the  entreaties  which  his  sarcasm  had  provoked,  he  took  the 
roll  with  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  marking  the  time,  and  made 
use  of  it  to  separate  and  range  in  two  lines  his  unruly  row.  Then, 
advancing  with  a serious  air  between  the  double  row  of  these  light* 
headed  creatures,  he  proceeded  toward  the  organ-loft,  and  stopped 
before  a little  figure  who  was  seated,  bent  down,  on  one  of  the  steps. 
She,  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  fingers  in  her  ears,  in 
order  not  to  be  distracted  by  the  noise,  and  twisted  into  a sort  of  coil, 
like  a squirrel  sinking  to  sleep,  conned  over  her  lessons  in  a low 
voice,  so  as  to  disturb  no  one.  He,  solemn  and  triumphant,  with  leg 
advanced  and  outstretched  arm,  seemed  like  the  shepherd  Paris 
awarding  the  apple,  not  to  the  most  beautiful,  but  to  the  most  modest 
“Consuelo!  the  Spaniard!”  exclaimed  all  the  young  choristers, 
struck  at  first  with  the  utmost  surprise,  but  almost  immediately  join- 
ing in  a general  burst  of  laughter,  such  as  Homer  attributes  to  the 
gods  of  Olympus  and  which  caused  a blush  of  anger  and  indignation 
on  the  majestic  countenance  of  the  professor. 

Little  Consuelo,  with  her  closed  ears,  had  heard  nothing  of’ this 
dialogue.  Her  eyes  were  bent  on  vacancy,  and,  busied  with  her  task, 
she  remained  some  moments  unconscious  of  the  uproar.  Then,  per- 
ceiving herself  the  object  of  general  attention,  she  dropped  her  hands 
on  her  knees,  allowed  her  book  to  fall  on  the  floor,  and,  petrified  with 
astonishment,  not  unmixed  with  fear,  rose  at  length,  and  looked 
around,  in  order  to  see  what  ridiculous  person  or  thing  afforded  mat- 
ter for  such  noisy  mirth. 

“ Consuelo,”  said  the  master,  taking  her  hand  without  further  ex- 
planation, “ come,  my  good  child,  and  sing  me  the  ‘ Salve  Regina 9 
of  Pergolese,  which  thou  hast  learned  but  a fortnight,  and  which  Clo- 
rinda  has  been  studying  for  more  than  a year.” 

Consuelo,  without  replying,  and  Without  evincing  either  pride, 
shame,  or  embarrassment,  followed  the  singing-master  to  the  organ, 
where,  sitting  down,  he  struck  with  an  air  of  triumph  the  key-note 
for  his  young  pupil.  Then  Consuelo,  with  unaffected  simplicity  and 
ease,  raised  her  clear  and  thrilling  voice,  and  filled  the  lofty  roof  with 
the  sweetest  and  purest  notes  with  which  it  had  ever  echoed.  She 
sang  the  “ Salve  Regina  ” without  a single  error — without  venturing 
upon  one  note  which  was  not  just,  full,  sustained,  or  interrupted  at 
the  proper  place ; and,  following  with  unvarying  precision  the  instruc- 
tions which  the  learned  master  had  given  her,  fulfilling  with  her  clear 
perceptions  his  precise  and  correct  intentions,  she  accomplished,  with 
the  inexperience  and  indifference  of  a child,  that  which  science,  prao 
tice,  and  enthusiasm  had  not  perhaps  done  for  the  most  perfect  sing- 
er. In  a word,  she  sang  to  admiration. 

“ It  is  well,  my  child,”  said  the  good  old  master,  always  chary  of 
his  praise.  “ You  have  studied  with  attention  that  which  you  have 
faithfully  performed.  Next  time  you  shall  repeat  the  cantata  of  Scar- 
latti which  I have  taught  you.” 
u Si,  Signor  Profesor ,”  replied  Consuelo — “ now  may  I go?” 

“ Yes,  my  dear.  Young  ladies,  the  lesson  is  over.” 

Consuelo  placed  in  her  little  basket  her  music  and  crayons,  as  well 
as  her  black  fan — th-a  inseparable  companion  alike  of  Spaniard  and 
Venetian — which  she  never  used,  although  she  never  went  without 


C0H8USL0 


It  Then  disappearing  behind  the  fretwork  of  the  organ,  she  flew  as 
lightly  as  a bird  down  the  mysterious  stairs  which  lea  to  the  body  of 
the  cathedral,  knelt  for  a moment  in  crossing  the  nave,  and,  when 
just  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  church,  found  beside  the  font  a 
handsome  young  man,  who,  smiling,  presented  the  holy  water  to  her. 
She  took  some  of  it,  looking  at  him  all  the  time  with  the  self- pot- 
session  of  a little  girl  who  knows  and  feels  that  she  is  not  yet  a 
woman,  and  mingling  her  thanks  and  her  devotional  gesture  in  so 
agreeable  a fashion  that  the  signor  could  not  help  laughing  outright 
Consuelo  began  to  laugh  likewise  ; but,  all  at  once,  as  if  she  had 
recollected  that  some  one  was  waiting  for  her,  she  cleared  the  porch 
and  the  steps  at  a bound,  and  was  off  in  an  instant 
In  the  mean  time,  the  professor  again  replaced  his  spectacles  in  his 
huge  waistcoat  pocket,  and  thus  addressed  his  silent  scholars : — 

“ Shame  upon  you,  my  fair  pupils ! ” said  he.  “ This  little  girl,  the 
youngest  of  you  all — the  yo.ungest  in  the  whole  class— is  the  only  one 
of  you  capable  of  executing  a solo.  And  in  the  choruses,  no  matter 
what  tricks  are  played  on  every  side  of  her,  I always  find  her  firm 
and  steady  as  a note  of  the  harpsichord.  It  is  because  she  has  zeal, 
patience,  and— what  you  will  never  have,  no,  not  one  of  you — a con* 
science  1 ” 

“ Ah  I now  the  murder  is  out,”  cried  Costanza,  as  soon  as  the  pxo- 
fessor  had  left  the  church.  “ He  only  repeated  it  some  thirty-nine 
times  during  the  lesson,  and  now,  I verily  believe,  he  would  fail  ill  if 
he  did  not  get  saying  it  the  fortieth.” 

“ A great  wonder,  indeed,  that  this  Consuelo  should  get  on!”  ex- 
claimed Zulietta : “ she  is  so  poor  that  she  must  work  to  learn  some- 
thing whereby  to  earn  her  bread.” 

“ They  tell  me  her  mother  was  a gipsy,”  said  Michelina,  “ and  that 
the  little  one  sang  about  the  streets  and  highways  before  she  came 
here.  To  be  sure,  she  has  not  a bad  voice;  but  then  she  has  not  a 
particle  of  intelligence,  poor  girl!  She  learns  merely  by  rote;  she 
follows  to  the  letter  the  professor’s  instructions, — and  her  lungs  do 
the  rest.” 

“ If  she  had  the  best  lungs  in  the  world,  and  the  best  brains  into 
the  bargain,”  said  the  handsome  Clorinda,  “I  would  not  give  my 
lace  in  exchange  for  hers.” 

“ I do  not  know  that  you  would  lose  so  much,”  replied  Costanza, 
who  had  not  had  a very  exalted  opinion  of  Clorinda’s  beauty. 

w She  is  not  pretty  for  all  that,”  said  another.  “ She  is  as  yellow 
as  a paschal  candle.  Her  great  eyes  say  just  nothing  at  all,  and  then 
she  is  always  so  ill  dressed!  She  is  decidedly  ugly.” 

“ Poor  girl ! she  is  much  to  be  pitied  —no  money— no  beauty?  ” 
Thus  finished  the  praises  of  Consuelo.  They  comforted  themselvm 
by  their  contemptuous  pity,  for  having  been  forced  to  admire  her 
tinging. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  scene  just  related  took  place  in  Venice  about  a hundred 
years  ago,  in  the  church  of  the  Mend* can ti,  where  the  celebrated 
master  Porpora  Lad  just  rehearsed  the  grand- vespers  which  he  waa 


0ON6 UBL* 


to  direct  on  the  following  Assumption-day.  The  young  choristers 
whom  he  had  so  smartly  scolded  were  pupils  of  the  state  schools,  In 
which  they  were  instructed  at  the  expense  of  government,  and  after- 
wards received  a dowry  preparatory  to  marriage  or  the  cloister,  as 
Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  who  admired  their  magnificent  voices  at  the 
same  period  and  in  the  same  church,  has  observed.  He  mentions  the 
circumstance  in  the  charming  episode  in  the  eighth  book  of , his  Con- 
fessions. I shall  not  here  transcribe  those  two  delightful  pages,  leet 
the  friendly  reader^  whose  example  under  similar  circumstances  I 
should  certainly  imitate,  might  be  unable  to  resume  my  own.  Hop- 
ing, then,  that  the  aforesaid  Confessions  are  not  at  hand,  I continue 
my  narrative. 

All  those  young  ladies  were  not  equally  poor.  Notwithstanding  the 
strictness  of  the  administration,  it  is  certain  that  some  gained  ad.- 
wission,  to  whom  it  was  a matter  of  speculation  rather  than  of  need 
to  receive  an  artistic  education  at  the  expense  of  the  republic.  For 
this  reason  it  was  that  some  permitted  themselves  to  forget  the  sacred 
laws  of  equality,  thanks  to  which,  they  had  been  enabled  to  take 
their  seats  clandestinely  along  with  their  poorer  sisters.  All,  there- 
fore, did  not  fulfil  the  intentions  of  the  austere  republic  respecting 
their  future  lot.  From  time  to  time  there  were  numbers  who,  having 
received  their  gratuitous  education,  renounced  their  dowry  to  seek  a 
more  brilliant  fortune  elsewhere.  The  administration,  seeing  that 
this  was  inevitable,  had  sometimes  admitted  to  the  course  of  instruc- 
tion the  children  of  poor  artists,  whose  wandering  existence  did  not 
permit  them  a long  stay  in  Venice.  Among  this  number  was  the 
little  Consuelo,  who  was  born  in  Spain  and  had  come  thence  to  Italy 
by  the  route  of  St.  Petersburg,  Constantinople,  Mexico,  Archangel, 
or  any  other  still  more  direct,  after  the  eccentric  fashion  of  the 
gipsies. 

Nevertheless,  she  hardly  merited  this  appellation:  for  she  was 
neither  Hindoo  nor  gipsy,  any  more  than  of  any  of  the  tribes  of 
Israel.  She  was  of  good  Spanish  blood — doubtless  with  a tinge  of 
the  Moresco ; and  though  somewhat  swarthy,  she  had  a tranquillity 
of  manner  which  was  quite  foreign  to  any  of  the  wandering  races.  I 
do  not  wish  to  say  anything  ill  of  the  latter.  If  I had  invented  the 
character  of  Consuelo,  I do  not  say  but  that  I would  have  traced  her 
parentage  from  Israel,  or  even  farther;  but  she  was  altogether,  as 
everything  about  her  organization  betrayed,  of  the  family  of  IshmaeL, 
To  be  sure  I never  saw  her,  not  being  a century  old,  but  I was  told 
so  and  I needs  must  repeat  it.  She  had  none  of  the  feverish  petu- 
lance, alternated  by  fits  of  apathetic  languor,  which  distinguishes  tha 
zingarella ; neither  had  she  the  insinuating  curiosity  nor  the  front- 
less audacity  of  Hebrew  mendicancy.  She  was  calm  as  the  water  of 
the  lagunes,  and  at  the  same  time  active  as  the  light  gondolas  that 
skimmed  along  their  surface. 

As  she  was  growing  rapidly  and  as  her  mother  was  very  poor,  her 
clothes  were  always  a year  too  short,  which  gave  to  her  long  legs  of 
fourteen  years’  growth,  accustomed  to  show  themselves  in  public,  a 
aort  of  savage  grace  which  one  was  pleased  and  at  the  same  timo 
sorry  to  see.  Whether  her  foot  was  large  or  not,  it  was  impossible  to 
say,  her  shoes  were  so  bad.  On  the  other  hand,  her  figure,  confined 
in  narrow  stays  ripped  at  every  seam,  was  elastic  and  flexible  as  a 
palm-tree,  but  without  form,  fulness,  or  attraction.  She,  poor  girl  I 
thought  nc  thing  about  it,  accustomed  as  sha  wai  to  hoar  banal/ 


called  a gipsy  and  a wanderer  by  the  fair  daughters  of  the  Adria 
Her  face  was  round,  sallow,  and  insignificant,  and  would  have  struck 
nobody,  if  her  short  thick  hair  fastened  behind  her  ears,  and  at  the 
same  time  her  serious  and  indifferent  demeanor,  had  not  given  her  a 
singularity  of  aspect  which  was  but  little  attractive.  Faces  which  do 
not  please  at  first,  by  degrees  lose  still  more  the  power  of  pleasing 
The  beings  to  whom  they  belong,  indifferent  to  others,  become  so  to 
themselves,  and  assume  a negligence  of  aspect  which  repels  more  and 
more.  On  the  contrary,  beauty  observes,  admires,  and  decks  itself  as 
it  were  in  an  imaginary  mirror  which  is  always  before  its  s^es^  Ugli- 
ness forgets  itself  and  is  passed  by.  Nevertheless,  there  are  two  sort* 
of  ugliness ; one  which  suffers,  and  protests  against  the  general  disap- 
probation by  habitual  rage  and  envy— that  is  the  true,  the  only  ugli- 
ness. The  other,  ingenuous,  heedless,  which  goes  quietly  on  its  way, 
neither  inviting  nor  shunning  comparisons,  and  which  wins  the  heart 
while  it  shocks  the  sense — such  was  the  ugliness  of  Consuelo.  Those 
who  were  sufficiently  generous  to  interest  themselves  about  her,  at 
first  regretted  that  she  was  not  pretty ; and  then  correcting  them- 
selves, and  patting  her  head  with  a familiarity  which  beauty  does  not 
permit,  added : “ After  all,  you  are  a good  creature ; ” and  Consuelo 
was  perfectly  satisfied,  although  she  knew  very  well  that  that  meant, 
“You  are  nothing  more.” 

In  the  mean  time,  the  young  and  handsome  signor  who  had  offered 
her  the  holy  water  at  the  font,  stayed  behind  till  he  had  seen  all  the 
scholars  disappear.  He  looked  at  them  with  attention,  and  when 
Clorinda,  the  handsomest,  passed  near  him,  he  heW  out.his  moistened 
fingers  that  he  might  have  the  pleasure  of  touching  hers.  The  young 
girl  blushed  with  pride,  and  passed  on,  casting  as  she  did  so,  one  of 
those  glances  of  shame  mixed  with  boldness,  which  are  expressive 
neither  of  self-respect  nor  modesty. 

As  soon  as  they  had  disappeared  in  the  interior  of  the  convent,  the 
gallant  patrician  returned  to  the  nave,  and  addressed  the  preceptor 
who  was  descending  more  slowly  the  steps  of  the  tribune.  < 

“ Corpo  di  Bacco  1 dear  maestro,”  said  he,  “ will  you  tell  me  which 
of  your  pupils  sang  the  ‘ Salve  Regina  f 1 ” 

“And  why  so  anxious  to  know,  Count  Zustiniani  ? ” asked  the  pro- 
fessor, accompanying  him  out  of  the  church. 

“ To  compliment  you  on  your  pupil,”  replied  the  patrician.  “You 
know  how  long  I have  attended  vespers,  and  even  the  exercises ; for 
you  are  aware  how  very  fond  I am  of  sacred  music.  Well,  this  is  the 
first  time  that  I have  heard  Pergolese  sung  in  so  perfect  a manner, 
and  as  to  the  voice,  it  is  the  most  beautiful  that  I have  ever  listened 
to.” 

“ I believe  it  well,”  replied  the  professor,  inhaling  a large  pinch  of 
muff  with  dignity  and  satisfaction. 

“ Tell  me  then  the  name  of  this  heavenly  creature  who  has  thrown 
me  into  such  an  ecstacy.  In  spite  of  your  severity  and  your  continual 
fault-finding,  you  have  created  the  best  school  in  all  Italy.  Your 
choruses  are  excellent,  and  your  solos  very  good ; but  your  music  is  m 
severe,  so  grand,  that  young  girls  can  hardly  be  expected  to  express 
its  beauties.” 

“ They  do  not  express  them,”  said  the  professor  mournfblly,  * bo 
cause  they  do  not  feel  them.  Good  voices,  God  be  thanked,  we  do 
not  want;  but  as  for  a good  musical  organization,  alas,  it  is  hardly  ta 
bo  mot  with!” 


CONBUJSLO 


44  You  possess  at  least  one  admirably  endowed.  Het  organ  is  mag* 
nlficent,  her  sentiment  perfect,  her  skiL  remarkable — name  her 
then.” 

44  Is  it  not  so  ? ” said  the  professor,  evading  the  question ; 44  did  it 
not  delight  you  ? ” 

44  It  took  my  heart  by  storm-it  even  drew  tears  from  me — and  that 
by  means  so  simple,  combinations  so  little  sought  afterj  that  at  fiist  I 
could  hardly  understand  it.  Then  I remembered  what  you  had  so 
often  told  me  touching  your  divine  art,  my  dear  master,  and  for  the 
first  time  I understood  how  much  you  were  in  the  right” 

44  And  what  did  I say  to  you?”  said  the  maestro,  with  an  air  of 
triumph. 

“ You  told  me,”  replied  the  count,  “that  simplicity  is  the  essence 
of  the  great,  the  true,  the  beautiful  in  art.” 

44 1 also  told  you  that  there  was  often  much  to  observe  and  applaud 
in  the  clever,  and  brilliant,  and  well  combined.” 

44  Doubtless ; but  between  these  secondary  qualities  and  the  true 
manifestation  of  genius,  there  was  an  abyss,  you  said.  Very  well,  deal 
maestro : your  cantatrice  is  alone  on  one  side  while  all  the  rest  are  on 
the  other.” 

44  It  is  not  less  true  than  well  expressed,”  observed  the  professor, 
rubbing  his  hands. 

44  Her  name  ? ” replied  the  count. 

44  Whose  name  ? ” rejoined  the  malicious  professor. 

44  Oh,  jper  Dio  Santo  ! that  Of  the  siren  whom  I have  just  been 
hearing.” 

44  What  do  you  want  with  her  name,  Signor  Count  ? ” replied  Por- 
pora,  in  a tone  of  severity. 

44  Why  should  you  wish  to  make  a secret  of  it,  maestro  ? ” 

44 1 will  tell  you  why,  if  you  will  let  me  know  what  object  you  have 
In  finding  out.” 

44  Is  it  not  a natural  and  irresistible  feeling  to  wish  to  see  and  to 
know  the  objects  of  our  admiration?  ” 

44  Ah ! that  is  not  your  only  motive.  My  dear  Count,  pardon  that  I 
thus  contradict  you.  You  are  a skilful  amateur  and  a profound  con- 
noisseur in  music,  as  everybody  knows.;  but  you  are,  over  and  above 
all,  proprietor  of  the  theatre  of  San  Samuel.  It  is  your  glory  and  your 
interest  alike,  to  encourage  the  loftiest  talent  and  the  finest  voices  of 
Italy.  You  know  that  our  instruction  is  good,  and  that  with  us  alone 
those  studies  are  pursued  which  form  great  musicians.  You  have 
already  carried  off  Corilla  from  me,  as  she  will  one  day  be  carried  off 
from  you  by  an  engagement  in  some  other  theatre ; so  you  are  come 
to  spy  about,  to  see  if  you  can’t  get  a hold  of  some  other  Corilla— if, 
indeed,  we  have  formed  one.  That  is  the  truth,  Signor  Count,  you 
must  admit.” 

44  And  were  it  even  so,  dear  maestro,”  replied  the  count,  smiling, 
* what  would  it  signify  to  you  ? — where  is  the  harm  ? ” 

44  It  is  a great  deal  of  harm,  Signor  Count.  Is  it  nothing  to  corrupt, 
to  destroy  these  poor  creatures  ? * 

44  Ha ! my  most  austere  professor,  how  long  have  you  been  the  guar- 
dian angel  of  their  frail  virtues  ? ” 

44 1 know  very  well,  Signor  Count,  I have  nothing  to  do  with  them, 
except  as  regards  their  talent,  which  you  disfigure,  and  disgrace  in 
your  theatres  by  giving  them  inferior  music  to  sing.  Is  it  not  a sorrow 
— is  it  not  a sin — to  see  Corilla,  who  was  just  beginning  to  understand 


CON  S U K LO. 


27 


jur  serious  art,  descend  from  the  sacred  to  thi  profane — from  prayer 
io  badinage— from  the  altar  to  the  boards — from  the  sublime  to  the 
absurd — from  Allegri  and  Palestrina  to  Aiomoni  and  the  barber  Apoh 
Uni?” 

u So  you  refuse,  in  your  severity,  to  name  a girl  respecting  whojn  I 
can  have  no  intention,  seeing  that  I do  not  know  whether  she  haa 
other  necessary  qualifications  for  the  theatre  ? ” 

“ I absolutely  refuse.” 

“ And  do  you  suppose  I shall  not  find  it  out  ? ” 

“ Alas  1 you  will  do  so  if  you  are  bent  upon  it,  but  I shall  do  my 
utmost  to  prevent  you  from  taking  her  from  us.” 

* Yery  well,  maestro,  you  are  half  conquered,  for  I have  seen  her — 
I have  divined  your  mysterious  divinity.” 

“ So,  so,”  replied  the  master,  with  a reserved  and  distrustful  air 
u are  you  sure  of  that  ? ” 

“ My  eyes  and  my  heart  have  alike  revealed  her  to  me;  and,  that 
you  may  be  convinced,  I shall  describe  her  to  you.  She  is  tall — taller, 
I think,  than  any  of  your  pupils — fair  as  the  snow  on  Friuli,  and  rosy 
as  the  dawn  of  a summer  morn ; she  has  golden  hair,  azure  eyes,  an 
exquisitely  rounded  form,  with  a ruby  on  her’finger  which  burned  my 
hand  as  I touched  it,  like  sparks  from  a magic  fire.” 

“ Bravo  1 ” exclaimed  Porpora,  with  a cunning  air ; “ in  that  case  I 
have  nothing  to  conceal.  The  name  of  your  beauty  is  Clorinda.  Go 
and  pay  your  court  to  her;  gain  her  over  with  gold,  with  diamonds, 
and  gay  attire.  You  will  easily  conclude  an  engagement  with  hen 
She  will  help  you  to  replace  Corilla ; for  the  public  of  your  theatre  al- 
ways prefer  fine  shoulders  to  sweet  sounds,  flashing  eyes  to  a lofty 
intellect.” 

“ Am  I then  mistaken,  my  dear  maestro  ? ” said  the  count,  a little 
confused ; “ and  is  Clorinda  but  a common-place  beauty  ? ” 

“ But  suppose  my  siren,  my  divinity,  my  angel,  as  you  are  pleased 
to  call  her,”  resumed  the  maestro,  maliciously,  “ was  anything  but  a 
beauty  ? ” 

“ If  she  be  deformed,  I beseech  you  not  to  name  her,  for  my  illusion 
would  be  too  cruelly  dissipated.  If  she  were  only  ugly,  I could  still 
adore  her : but  I should  not  engage  her  for  the  theatre,  because  talent 
without  beauty  is  a misfortune,  a struggle,  a perpetual  torment  for  a 
woman.  What  are  you  looking  at,  maestro,  and  why  do  you  pause?  ” 
“ Why  ? because  we  are  at  the  water-steps,  and  I see  no  gondola. 
But  you,  Count,  what  do  you  look  at  ? ” 

“ I was  looking  to  see  if  that  young  fellow  on  the  steps  there  beside 
that  plain  little  girl,  was  not  my  proteg^.  Anzoleto,  the  handsomest 
and  most  intelligent  of  all  our  little  plebeians.  Look  at  him,  dear 
maestro.  Do  you  not,  like  me,  feel  interested  in  him  ? That  boy  hai 
the  sweetest  tenor  in  Venice,  and  he  is  passionately  fond  of  music,  for 
which  he  has  an  incredible  aptitude.  I have  long  wished  to  talk  t© 
you  about  it,  and  to  ask  you  to  give  him  lessons.  I look  upon  him  as 
the  future  support  of  my  theatre,  and  hope  in  a few  years  to  be  repaid 
for  all  my  trouble.  Hola,  Zoto ! come  hither,  my  lad,  that  I may  pre- 
sent you  to  the  illustrious  master  Porpora.” 

Anzoleto  drew  his  naked  legs  out  of  the  water,  where  they  hung 
carelessly,  while  he  amused  himself  stringing  those  pretty  shells  which 
In  V enice  are  poetically  termed  ftori  di  mare.  His  only  garments  were 
a pair  of  well-worn  pantaloons  and  a fine  shirt,  through  the  rents  of 
which  one  could  see  his  white  shoulders,  modelled  like  those  a 


fiOKflUlLO 


youthful  Bacchus.  He  had  all  the  grace  and  beauty  of  a young  Farm, 
chiselled  in  the  palmiest  days  of  Grecian  art ; and  his  features  di* 
played  that  singular  union,  not  unfrequent  in  the  creation  of  Grecian 
statuary,  of  careless  rony  with  meditative  sadness.  His  fine  fair  hair, 
somewhat  bronzed  by  the  sun,  clustered  in  Antinous-like  curls  about 
his  alabaster  neck;  his  features  were  regular  and  beautifully  formed; 
but  there  was  something  bold  and  forward  in  the  expression  of  his 
jet-black  eyes  which  displeased  the  maestro.  The  boy  promptly  rose 
when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Zustiniani,  pitched  his  shells  into  the  lap 
of  the  little  girl  beside  him,  who  without  raising  her  eyes  went  on  with 
her  occupation  of  stringing  them  along  with  golden  beads,  and  com- 
ing forward,  kissed  the  count’s  hand,  after  the  fashion  of  the  country. 

“ Upon  my  word,  a handsome  fellow  1 ” said  the  professor,  tapping 
him  gently  on  the  cheek ; “ but  he  seems  occupied  with  amusement* 
rather  childish  for  his  time  of  life ; he  is  fiJly  eighteen  years  old,  is  ho 
not?” 

“Nineteen  shortly,  Sior  Profesor ,”  replied  Anzoleto,  in  the  Vene- 
tian dialect;  “ but  if  I amuse  myself  with  shells,  it  is  to  help  little 
Consuelo  here  to  make  her  necklaces.” 

“ Consuelo,”  said  the  master,  advancing  towards  his  pupil  with  the 
count  and  Anzoleto,  “ I did  not  imagine  that  you  cared  for  ornaments.” 
“ Oh,  it  is  not  for  myself,  Signor,”  replied  Consuelo,  rising  cau- 
tiously to  prevent  the  shells  falling  from  her  lap ; “ I make  them  for 
sale,  i'n  order  to  procure  rice  and  Indian  com.” 

“ She  is  poor,  and  supports  her  mother,”  said  Porpora.  “ Listen, 
Consuelo : should  you  find  yourselves  in  any  difficulty,  be  sure  to  come 
and  see  me;  but  I absolutely  forbid  you  to  beg,  remember.” 

“Oh,  you  need  not  forbid  her,  Sior  Profesor ,”  replied  Anzoleto, 
with  animation ; “ she  will  never  do  so ; and,  besides,  I would  prevent 
her.” 

“ But  you  have  nothing,”  said  the  count.  . 

“Nothing  but  your  liberality, Eccellenza;  but  we  share  together, 
the  little  one  and  myself.” 

“ She  is  a relative  then  I ” 

“ No ; she  is  a stranger — it  is  Consuelo.” 

“ Consuelo  1 what  a singular  name  I ” said  the  count. 

“A  beautiful  name,  Eccellenza,”  resumed  Anzoleto;  “it  means 
Consolation.” 

“ Oh,  indeed  ? She  is  your  friend  then,  it  seems  ? " 

“ She  is  my  betrothed,  Signor.” 

“ So  soon  ? Such  children  I to  think  of  marriage  already ! ” 

“We  shall  marry  on  the  day  that  you  may  sign  my  engagement  at 
San  Samuel,  Eccellenza.” 

“ In  that  case  you  will  have  to  wait  a long  time,  my  little  ones.” 

“ Oh,  we  shall  wait,”  replied  Consuelo,  with  the  cheerful  gaiety  of 
Innocence. 

The  count  and  the  maestro  amused  themselves  for  some  time  longer 
with  the  frank  remarks  and  repartees  of  the  young  couple ; then,  hav- 
ing arranged  that  Anzoleto  should  give  the  professor  an  opportunity 
©f  hearing  his  voice  in  the  morning,  they  separated,  leaving  him  to 
his  serious  occupations. 

“ What  do  you  think  of  that  little  girl  ? ” said  the  professor  to  Ztu* 
&aiani. 

“ I saw  her  but  ar.  instant,  and  I think  her  sufficiently  ugly  to  jus- 
tify the  maxim,  that  In  the  eyes  of  a youth  of  eighteen  every  woman 
fe  handsome.” . 


“ Very  good,”  rejoined  the  professor;  “ now  permit  me  to  inform 
you  that  your  divine  songstress,  your  siren,  your  mysterious  beauty, 
was  no  other  than  Consuelo.” 

“ What!  that  dirty  creature ?■— that  dark  and  meagre  grasshopper? 
impossible,  maestro.” 

“ No  other,  Signor  Count.  “ Would  she  not  make  a fascinating 
prima  donna  f ” 

The  count  stopped,  looked  back,  and  clasping  his  hands  while  he 
surveyed  Consuelo  at  a distance,  exclaimed  in  mock  despair,  “ Just 
Heaven!  how  canst  thou  so  err  as  to  pour  the  fire  of  genius  into 
heads  so  poorly  formed ! ” 

“ So  you  give  up  your  culpable  intentions  ? ” said  the  professor. 

“ Most  certainly.” 

“You  promise  me? ” added  Porpora. 

“ Oh,  I swear  it,”  replied  the  count. 


CHAPTER  HL 

Born  in  sunny  Italy,  brought  up  by  chance,  like  a seabird  sporting 
on  its  shores,  poor,  an  orphan,  a castaway,  and  nevertheless  happy  in 
the  present  and  confiding  in  the  future,  foundling  as  he  doubtless  was 
— Anzoleto,  the  handsome  youth  of  nineteen,  who  spent  his  Jays 
with  little  Consuelo,  in  perfect  freedom  on  the  footways  of  Venice, 
was  not,  as  might  be  supposed,  in  his  first  love.  Too  early  initiated, 
he  would  perhaps  have  been  completely  corrupted^and  worn  out,  had 
he  dwelt  in  our  gloomy  climate,  or  had  Nature  endowed  him  with  a 
feebler  organization.  But  early  developed  and  destined  to  a long  and  ^ 
powerful  career,  his  heart  was  pure,  and  his  senses  were  restrained  by 
his  will.  He  had  met  the  little  Spaniard  by  chance,  singing  hymns 
before  the  Madonette ; and  for  the  pleasure  of  exercising  his  voice  he 
had  joined  her  for  hours  together  beneath  the  stars.  Then  they  met 
upon  the  sands  of  the  Lido  to  gather  shell-fish,  which  he  ate,  and 
which  she  converted  into  chaplets  and  other  ornaments.  And  then 
again  they  had  met  in  the  churches,  where  she  prayed  with  all  her 
heart,  and  where  he  gazed  with  all  his  eyes  at  the  fine  ladies.  In 
all  these  interviews  Consuelo  had  appeared  to  him  so  good,  so  sweet, 

»o  obliging,  and  so  gay,  that  she  had  become  his  inseparable  friend 
and  companion — he  knew  not  very  well  how  or  why.  Anzoleto  had 
known  love’s  rapture  only.  He  was  attached  for  Consuelo ; and  as  he 
belonged  to  a country  and  a people  where  passion  reigns  over  every' 
other  feeling,  he  knew  no  other  name  for  this  attachment  than  that 
of  love.  Consuelo  admitted  this  mode  of  speaking  after  she  had  ad' 
dressed  Anzoleto  as  follows : — “ If  you  are  my  lover,  it  is  then  with 
the  intention  of  marrying  me  ? ” To  which  he  replied—  “ Certainly, 
if  you  wish  it,  we  shall  marry  each  other.”  From  that  moment  it 
was  a settled  affair.  Possibly  Anzoleto  was  amusing  himself,  but  to 
Consuelo  it  was  a matter  of  firm  conviction.  Even  already  hia 
young  heart  experienced  those  contradictory  and  complicated  emo- 
tions which  agitate  and  discompose  the  existence  of  those  who  love 
too  early. 

Given  up  to  violent  impulses,  greedy  of  pleasure,  loving  only  what 


OOKSUBLO 


promoted  his  happiness,  hating  and  avoiding  everything  which  op- 
posed his  gratifications,  at  heart  an  artist — that  is  to  say,  feeling  and 
revelling  in  life  with  frightful  intensity — he  soon  found  that  his  tran- 
sient attachments  imposed  on  him  the  sufferings  and  dangers  of  a pas- 
sion which  he  did  not  really  feel ; and  he  experienced  the  want  of 
sweet  companionship,  and  of  a chaste  and  tranquil  outfct  to  his  feel- 
ings. Then,  without  understanding  the  charm  which  drew  him  to 
Consuelo — having  little  experience  of  the  beautiful — hardly  knowing 
whether  she  was  handsome  or  ugly— -joining  for  her  sake  in  amuse- 
ments beneath  his  age — he  led  with  her  in  public,  on  the  marble 
floors,  and  on  the  waters  of  Venice,  a life  as  happy,  as  pure,  as  retired, 
and  almost  as  poetic,  as  that  of  Paul  and  Virginia  in  the  recesses  of 
the  forest.  Although  they  enjoyed  unrestrained  liberty — no  watch- 
ful, tender  parents  to  form  them  to  virtue — no  devoted  attendant  to 
seek  them  and  bring  them  back  to  the  bosom  of  their  homes — not 
even  a dog  to  warn  them  of  danger — they  never  experienced  harm 
They  skimmed  over  the  waters  of  the  lagunes  in  all  times  and  sea* 
sons  in  their  open  boat,  without  oars  or  pilot ; they  wandered  over 
the  marshes  without  guide,  without  watch,  and  heedless  of  the  rising 
waters ; they  sang  before  the  vine-covered  chapels  at  the  corners  of 
the  streets,  without  thinking  of  the  hour,  and  sometimes  with  no 
other  couch  than  the  white  tiles,  still  warm  with  the  summer  rays. 
They  paused  before  the  theatre  of  Punchinello,  and  followed  with 
riveted  attention  the  fantastic  drama  of  the  beautiful  Curisanda,  queen 
of  the  puppet  show,  without  thinking  of  their  breakfast,  or  the  '.little 
probability  there  was  of  supper.  They  enjoyed  the  excesses  of  the 
carnival,  he  with  his  coat  turned  inside  out,  she  with  a bunch  of  old 
ribbons  placed  coquettishly  over  her  ear.  They  dined  sumptuously 
— sometimes  on  the  balustrades  of  a bridge  or  on  the  steps  of  a palace 
— on  shell-fish,  fennel  stalks,  and  pieces  of  citron.  In  short,  they  led 
a free  and  joyous  life,  without  incurring  more  risk,  or  feeling  more 
emotion,  than  might  have  been  experienced  by  two  young  people  of 
the  same  age  and  sex.  Days,  years  passed  away.  Anzoleto  formed 
other  connections,  while  Consuelo  never  imagined  that  he  could  love 
any  one  but  her.  She  became  a young  woman  without  feeling  it  nec- 
essary to  exercise  any  further  reserve  with  her  betrothed ; while  he 
saw  her  undergo  this  transformation  without  feeling  any  impatience, 
or  desiring  to  change  this  intimacy,  free  as  it  was  at  once  from  scru- 
ple, mystery,  or  remorse. 

It  was  already  four  years  since  Professor  Porpora  and  Zustinianl 
had  mutually  introduced  their  little  musicians,  and  during  this  period 
the  count  had  never  once  thought  of  the  young  chorister.  The  pro- 
fessor had  likewise  forgotten  the  handsome  Anzoleto,  inasmuch  as  he 
had  found  him  endowed  with  none  of  the  qualities  desirable  in  a 
pupil — to  wit,  a serious,  patient  disposition,  submission  to  his  teacher, 
and  complete  absence  of  all  musical  studies  before  the  period  of  his 
instruction.  “ Do  not  talk  to  me,”  said  he,  “ about  a pupil  whose 
mind  is  anything  else  than  a tabula  rasa , or  virgin  wax,  on  which  1 
am  to  make  the  first  impression.  I cannot  afford  to  give  up  a year  to 
unteach  what  has  been  learned  before.  If  you  want  me  to  write, 
give  me  a clear  surface,  and  that  too  of  a good  quality.  If  it  be  too 
hard  I can  make  no  impression  on  it ; if  too  soft,  I shall  destroy  it  at 
the  first  stroxe.”  In  short,  although  he  acknowledged  the  extraordh 
nary  talents  of  the  young  Anzoleto,  he  told  the  count  with  some  tern? 
par  and  Ironical  humility,  at  tbf  of  his  first  lesson*  that  b 


was  not  adapted  to  a pupil  so  far  advanced,  aid  that  a master 
amid  only  embarrass  and  retard  the  natural  progress  and  invincible 
A/velopment  of  so  superior  an  organization. 

The  count  sent  his  protege  to  Professor  Mellifiore,  who,  with  rou- 
lades and  cadences,  modulations  and  trills,  so  developed  his  brilliant 
qualities,  that  at  twenty-three  he  was  considered  capable,  in  the 
opinion  of  all  those  who  heard  him  in  the  saloons  of  the  court,  of 
joining  out  at  San  Samuel  in  the  first  parts.  One  evening  the  dilet- 
tanti, nobility,  and  artists  of  repute  then  in  Venice,  were  requested  to 
oe  present  at  a final  and  decisive  trial.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Anzoleto  doffed  his  plebeian  attire,  put  on  a black  coat,  a satin  vest 
ind  with  curled  and  powdered  hair,  and  buckles  in  his  shoes,  glided 
over  with  a composed  air  to  the  harpsichori,  where  amid  the  glare  of 
a hundred  wax-lights,  and  under  the  gaze  of  two  or  three  hundred 
persons,  he  boldly  distended  his  chest,  and  made  the  utmost  display 
of  powers  that  were  to  introduce  him  into  a career  where  not  one 
judge  alone,  but  a whole  public,  held  the  palm  in  one  hand  and 
downfall  in  the  other. 

We  need  not  ask  whether  Anzoleto  was  secretly  agitated.  Never- 
theless, he  scarcely  allowed  his  emotion  to  be  apparent;  and  hardly 
had  his  piercing  eyes  divined  by  a stealthy  glance  the  secret  approba- 
tion which  women  rarely  refuse  to  grant  to  so  handsome  a youth — 
hardly  had  the  amateurs,  surprised  at  the  compass  of  his  voice,  and 
his  facility  of  expression,  uttered  a few  faint , murmurs  of  applause— 
when  joy  and  hope  flooded  his  whole  being.  1 ir  the  first  time  An- 
zoleto, hitherto  ill-instructed  and  undervalued,  felt  that  he  was  no 
common  man ; and  transported  by  the  necessity  and  the  conscious- 
ness of  success,  he  sang  with  an  originality,  an  energy,  and  skill,  that 
were  altogether  remarkable.  His  taste,  to  be  sure,  was  not  alv  ays  a 
pure,  nor  his  execution  faultless ; but  he  was  always  able  to  extricate^! 
himself  by  his  boldness,  his  intelligence,  and  enthusiasm.  He  failed 
in  effects  which  the  composer  had  intended,  but  he  realized  others 
which  no  one  ever  thought  of— neither  the  author  who  composed,  the 
professor  who  interpreted,  nor  the  virtuoso  who  rehearsed  them.  His 
originality  took  the  world  by  storm.  For  one  innovation  his  awk- 
wardness was  pardoned,  and  for  an  original  sentiment  they  excused 
ten  rebellions  against  method.  So  true  it  is  that  in  point  of  art  the 
least  spark  of  genius — the  smallest  flight  in  the  direction  of  new  con- 
quests— exercises  a greater  fascination  than  all  the  resources  and 
lights  of  science  within  known  limits. 

Nobody,  perhaps,  was  able  to  explain  these  matters,  and  nobody 
escaped  the  common  enthusiasm.  Corilla  began  by  a grand  aria,  well 
•ung  and  loudly  applauded ; yet  the  success  of  the  young  debutant 
was  so  much  greater  than  her  own,  that  she  could  not  help  feeling  an 
emotion  of  anger.  But  when  Anzoleto,  loaded  with  caresses  and 
praises,  returned  to  the  harpsichord  where  she  was  seated,  he  said, 
with  a mixture  of  humility  and  boldness,  “ And  you,  queen  of  song 
and  queen  of  beauty ! have  you  not  one  encouraging  glance  for  the 
poor  wretch  who  fears  even  while  he  adores  you?”  The  prima 
donna  surprised  at  so  much  assurance,  looked  more  closely  at  the 
handsome  countenance  which  till  then  she  had  hardly  deigned  to 
notice — for  what  vain  and  triumphant  woman  cares  to  cast  a glance 
on  the  child  of  obscurity  and  ooverty  ? She  looked,  and  was  struck 
with  his  beauty.  The  fire  of  his  glances  penetrated  her  soul;  and 
vmquishod,  in  her  turn,  she  directed  towards  him  ft 


do*  kl  XLOi 


and  earnest  ga 2©,  which  served  to  seal  his  celebrity.  In  this  noaoa 
able  meeting,  Anzole*o  had  led  the  pubdc,  and  disarmed  his  roost  re- 
doubtable adversary ; for  the  beautiful  songstress  was  not  only  queen 
of  the  stage,  but  at  the  head  of  the  management,  and  of  the  caVaet 
of  Count  ZustinianL 


CHAPTER  IY. 


Ik  the  midst  of  the  general  and  somewhat  exaggerated  applause 
which  the  voice  and  manner  of  the  debutant  had  drawn  forth,  a single 
auditor,  seated  on  the  extreme  edge  of  his  chair,  his  legs  close  to- 
gether and  his  hands  motionless  on  his  knees,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
Egyptian  gods,  remained  dumb  as  a sphinx,  and  mysterious  as  a 
hieroglyphic.  It  was  the  able  professor  and  celebrated  composer 
Porpora.  Whilst  his  gallant  colleague,  Professor  Mellifiore,  ascribing 
to  himself  all  the  glory  of  Anzoleto’s  success,  plumed  himself  before 
the  women  and  bowed  to  the  men,  as  if  to  thank  them  even  for  their 
looks,  the  master  of  sacred  song,  with  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  silent 
and  severe,  seemed  lost  in  thought  When  the  company,  who  were 
engaged  to  a ball  at  the  palace  of  the  Doge,  had  slowly  departed,  and 
the  most  enthusiastic  dilettanti,  with  some  ladies,  alone  remained, 
Zustiniani  drew  nigh  to  the  austere  master. 

“ You  are  too  hard  upon  us,  poor  modems,  my  dear  professor,”  said 
be;  “ but  your  silence  has  no  influence  on  me.  You  would  exclude 
this  new  and  charming  style  which  delights  us  all.  But  your  heart 
Urs  open  in  spite  of  you,  and  your  ears  have  drunk  in  the  seductive 
poison.” 

“ Come  Sior  Pro/esor,”  said  the  charming  Corill  a,  resuming  with 
her  old  master  the  childish  manners  of  the  scuola , “ you  must  grant 
me  a favor.” 

“ Away,  unhappy  girl ! ” said  the  master,  partly  smiling  and  partly 
displeased  at  the  caresses  of  his  inconstant  pupil : “ there  As  no  fur- 
ther communication  between  us.  I know  you  no  more.  Take  your 
•weet  smiles  and  perfidious  warblings  elsewhere.” 

“ There  now,  he  is  coming  round,”  Laid  Corilla,  taking  with  one 
hand  the  arm  of  the  debutant,  without  letting  go  her  hold  of  the 
white  and  ample  cravat  of  the  professor.  “ Come  hitherto,  Zoto,  and 
bow  the  knee  before  the  most  learned  maestro  in  all  Italy.  Submit 
thyself,  my  child,  and  disarm  his  rigor.  One  word  from  him,  if  thou 
eouldst  obtain  it,  would  be  more  to  thee  than  all  the  trumpets  of  re- 
nown.” 

“ You  have  been  severe  towards  me,  Signor  Professor,”  said  Anzo- 
leto,  bending  before  him  with  mock  humility ; “ nevertheless,  my  only 
wish  for  four  years  has  been  to  Induce  you  to  reconsider  a cruel  t 
Judgment ; and  if  I fail  in  doing  sc  to-night,  I fear  I shall  never  have 
the  courage  to  appear  before  the  p lblic,  loaded  with  your  anathema.” 

u Child!”  said  the  professor,  rising  hastily,  and  speaking  with  an 
earnestness  which  imparted  something  noble  to  his  unimpressive  fig 
ure,  “ leave  false  and  honied  words  to  women.  Never  descend  to  the 
language  of  flattery,  ev  an  to  your  superiors— much  less  to  those  whoee 
suffrage  you  disdain.  It  is  but  an  hour  ago  since,  poor,  unknown. 


timid,  In  this  little  comer,  all  your  prospects  hong  upon  a hair— on  a 
note  froin  your  throat — a moment’s  failure  of  your  resources,  or  a 
mere  whiki  of  your  audience.  Chance,  and  the  efforts  of  an  instant, 
have  made  you  rich,  celebrated,  insolent.  Your  career  is  open  before 
you,  and  you  have  only  to  go  on,  so  long  as  your  strength  sustains 
you.  Listen  then:  for  the  first,  and  perhaps  for  the  last  time,  ycu 
are  about  to  hear  the  truth.  You  are  in  a false  direction;  you  siig 
badly,  and  lore  bad  music.  You  know  nothing,  and  have  studied 
nothing  thoroughly.  All  you  have  is  the  facility  which  practice  im- 
parts. You  assume  a passion  which  you  do  not  feel:  you  warble  and 
shake  like  those  pretty  coquettish  young  damsels  whom  one  pardons 
for  simpering  where  they  know  notTiow  to  sing.  You  know  not  how 
to  phrase  your  music;  you  pronounce  badly;  you  have  a vulgar  ac- 
cent, a false  and  common  style.  Do  not  be  discouraged,  however, 
with  all  these  defects.  You  have  wherewithal  to  combat  them.  You 
have  qualities  which  neither  labor  nor  instruction  can  impart.  You 
nave  that  which  neither  bad  advice  nor  bad  example  can  take  away. 
You  have  the  sacred  fire — you  have  genius!  Alas!  it  is  a fire  which 
will  shine  upon  nothing  grand,  a genius  that  will  remain  for  ever  bar- 
ren ; for  I have  seen  it  in  your  eyes,  aye  I have  felt  it  in  jour  breast. 
You  have  not  the  worship  of  art;  you  have  not  faith  in  the  great 
masters,  nor  respect  for  their  grand  conceptions ; you  love  glory,  and 
glory  for  yourself  alone.  You  might— you  could — but,  no!  it  is  too 
late ! Your  destiny  will  be  as  the  flash  of  a meteor — like  that  of ” 

And  the  professor,  thrusting  his  hat  over  his  brows,  turned  his 
back,  and  without  bowing  to  any  one,  left  the  apartment,  absorbed  in 
mentally  completing  his  energetic  sentence. 

Every  one  tried  to  laugh  at  the  sententious  professor ; but  his  words  ^ 
left  a painful  impression,  and  a melancholy  feeling  of  doubt,  which^B 
lasted  for  some  moments.  Anzoleto  was  the  first  who  apparentljBB 
ceased  to  think  of  them,  though  they  had  occasioned  him  an  intense 
feeling  of  joy,  pride,  anger,  and  emulation,  which  was  destined  to  in- 
fluence all  his  latter  life.  He  appeared  exclusively  engaged  in  pleas- 
ing Corilla,  and  he  knew  so  well  how  to  flatter  her,  that  she  was  very 
much  taken  with  him  at  this  first  meeting.  Count  Zustiniani  was  not 
jealous,  and  perhaps  had  his  reasons  for  taking  no  notice  of  them. 

He  was  interested  in  the  fame  and  success  of  his  theatre  more  than 
anything  else  in  the  world ; not  that  he  cared  about  money,  but  be- 
cause he  was  a real  fanatic  in  all  that  related  to  what  are  termed  the 
fine  arts . This,  in  my  opinion,  is  a phrase  which  is  generally  employ- 
ed in  a vulgar  sense,  and  being  altogether  Italian,  is  consequently  en- 
thusiastic and  without  much  discernment.  The  culture  of  art , a 
modern  expression,  which  the  world  did  not  make  use  of  a hundred 
years  ago,  has  a meaning  altogether  different  from  a taste  for  the  fine 
arts.  The  count  was  a man  of  taste  in  the  common  acceptation  of 
the  word — amateur,  and  nothing  more ; but  the  gratification  of  his 
taste  was  the  great  business  of  his  life.  He  loved  to  be  busy  about  the 
public,  and  to  have  the  public*  busy  about  him — to  frequent  the  socie- 
ty of  artists — to  lead  the  fashion — to  have  his  theatre,  his  luxury,  his 
amiability,  and  his  magi  ificence,  made  the  subject  of  conversation. 

He  had,  in  short,  the  ruling  passion  of  the  great  noblemen  of  his 
eountry-rnamely,  ostentation.  To  possess  and  direct  a .theatre  was 
the  best  means  of  occupying  and  amusing  the  whole  city.  He  would 
have  been  happy  if  he  could  have  asked  the  whole  republic  to  dinner. 
When  strangers  asked  Professor  Porpora  who  was  the  Count  Zuatia* 


r * 


,ani,  he  was  accustomed  to  reply — “ He  Is  ne  who  lores  to  fire  m« 
tertainments,  and  who  serves  up  music  at  his  theatre  a*  he  would 
pheasants  on  his  table.” 

It  was  one  in  the  morning  before  the  company  separated.  u An  so* 
Jeto,”  said  Corilla*  when  alone  with  him  in  the  embrasure  of  the  bal- 
cony, “ where  do  you  live  ? ” At  this  unexpected  inquiry,  Anzoleto 
grew  pale  and  red  almost  at  the  same  moment ; for  how  could  he  con- 
fess to  the  rich  and  fascinating  beauty  before  him,  that  he  had  in  a 
manner  neither  house  nor  home?  Even  this  response  would  have 
been  easier  than  to  mention  the  miserable  den  where  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  taHng  refuge,  when  neither  inclination  nor  necessity  obliged 
him  to  pass  the  night  in  the  open  air. 

“ Well,  what  is  there  so  extraordinary  in  my  question?  ” said  Coril- 
la,  laughing. 

“ I am  asking  myself,”  replied  Anzoleto,  with  much  presence  of 
mind,  “ what  royal  or  fairy  palace  were  fitting  home  for  the  happy 
mortal  who  is  honored  by  a glance  from  Corilla.” 

“ What  does  all  this  flattery  mean  ? ” said  she,  darting  on  him  one 
of  the  most  bewitching  glances  contained  in  the  storehouse  of  her 
charms. 

“ That  I have  not  that  honor,”  replied  the  young  man ; “ but  that, 
if  I had,  I should  be  content  only  to  float  between  earth  and  sky,  like 
the  stars.” 

“ Or  like  the  cwccaK,”  said  the  songstress,  bursting  into  a fit  of 
laughter.  It  is  well  known  that  gulls  (cuccali)  are  proverbially  sim- 
ple, and  to  speak  of  their  awkwardness,  in  the  language  of  Venice,  is 
equivalent  to  saying,  in  ours,  “ As  stupid  as  a goose.” 

“ Ridicule  me— despise  me,”  replied  Anzoleto ; “ I would  rather  that 
you  should  do  so  than  not  think  of  me  at  ail.” 

, “ Well,  then,”  said  she,  “ since  you  must  reply  in  metaphors,  I shall 

4a ke  you  with  me  in  my  gondola ; and  if  I take  you  away  from  your 
abode,  instead  of  taking  you  to  it,  it  will  be  your  own  fault.” 

“ If  that  be  your  motive  for  inquiry,  my  answer  is  brief  and  expli- 
cit : my  home  is  on  the  steps  of  your  palace.” 

“ Go  then,  and  await  me  on  the  stairs  below,”  said  Corilla,  lower- 
ing her  voice;  “ for  Zustiniani  may  blame  the  indulgence  with  which 
1 have  listened  to  your  nonsense.” 

In  the  first  impulse  of  his  vanity  Anzoleto  disappeared,  and  darting 
towards  the  landing-place  of  the  palace,  to  the  prow  of  Corilla’s  gondo- 
.a,  counted  &ie  moments  by  the  beating  of  his  fevered  pulse.  But  be- 
fore she  appeared  on  the  steps  of  the  palace,  many  thoughts  had 
passed  through  the  anxious  and  ambitious  brain  of  the  debutant 
fc  Corilla,”  said  he  to  himself,  “ is  all  powerful ; but  if  by  pleasing  hei 
I were  to  displease  the  count,  or  if,  in  virtue  of  my  too  easy  triumph, 
I were  to  destroy  her  power,  and  disgust  him  altogether  with  so  in- 
constant a beauty ” 

In  the  midst  of  these  perplexing  thoughts,  Anzoleto  measured  with 
a glance  the  stair  which  he  might  yet  remount,  and  was  planning  how 
to  effect  his  escape,  when  torches  gleamed  under  the  portico,  and  the 
beautiful  Corilla,  wrapped  in  an  ermine  cloak,  appeared  upon  the  up 
per  steps,  amid  a group  of  .cavaliers,  anxious  to  support  her  rounded 
elbow  in  the  hollow  of  their  hand,  and  in  this  manner  to  assist  her  ta 
descend,  as  is  the  custom  in  Venice. 

“ Well,”  said  the  gondolier  of  the  prima  .donna  to  the  confounded 
Anzoleto,  “ what  are  you  doing  there  ? Make  haste  into  the  gondola 


SI 


60V8VBL0. 

if  you  hare  permission;  if  not,  proceed  on  your  way,  for  my  lord 
count  is  with  the  signora. 9 

Anzoleto  threw  himself  nto  the  bottom  *of  the  gondola,  without 
knowing  what  he  did.  He  was  stupefied.  But  scarcely  did  he  find 
himself  there,  when  he  fanci  ed  the  amazement  and  indignation  which 
the  count  would  feel,  should  he  enter  into  the  gondola  with  Corilla, 
and  find  there  his  insolent  protegd.  His  cruel  anxiety  was  protracted 
for  several  minutes.  The  signora  had  stopped  about  half-w&y  down 
the  staircase ; she  was  laughing  and  talking  with  those  about  her,  and, 
in  discussing  a musical  phrase,  she  repeated  it  in  several  different 
ways.  Her  clear  and  thrilling  voice  died  away  amid  the  palaces  and 
cupolas  of  the  canal,  as  the  crow  of  the  cock  before  the  dawn,  is  lost 
in  the  silence  of  the  open  country. 

Anzoleto,  unable  to  contain  himself,  resolved  to  escape  by  the  open- 
ing of  the  gondola  which  was  farthest  from  the  stair.  He  had  already 
thrust  aside  the  glass  in  its  panel  of  black  velvet,  and  had  passed  one 
/eg  through  the  opening,  when  the  second  rower  of  the  prima  donna, 
who  was  stationed  at  the  stern,  leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  little  cab- 
in, said  in  a low  voice,  “ They  are  singing — that  is  as  much  as  to  say, 
‘ You  may  wait  without  being  afraid.’  ” 

“ I did  not  know  the  usual  custom,”  thought  Anzoleto,  who  still 
tarried,  not  without  some  mixture  of  consternation.  Corilla  amused 
herself  by  bringing  the  count  as  far  as  the  side  of  the  gondola,  and 
kept  him  standing  there,  while  she  repeated  the  “ felicissima  nottef” 
until  she  had  left  the  shore.  She  then  came  and  placed  herself  beside 
her  new  admirer,  with  as  much  ease  and  self-possession  as  if  his  life 
and  her  own  fortune  had  not  been  at  stake. 

“ Look  at  Corilk,”  said  Zustiniani  to  the  Count  Barberigo.  “ Well, 
( would  wager  my  head  that  she  is  not  alone  in  yonder  gondola.” 

“ And  why  do  you  think  so  ? ” replied  Barberigo. 

“ Because  she  asked  me  a thousand  times  to  accompany  her  to  her 
palace.” 

“ Is  that  your  jealousy  ? ” 

“ Oh,  I have  been  long  free  from  that  weakness.  I should  be  right 
glad  if  our  prima  donna  would  take  a fancy  to  some  one  who  would 
prevent  her  from  leaving  Venice  as  she  sometimes  threatens.  I could 
console  myself  for  her  desertion  of  me,  but  I could  neither  replace  hei 
voice  nor  her  talents,  nor  the  ardor  with  which  she  inspires  the  pub- 
lic at  San  Samuel.” 

“I  understand;  but  who, then,  is  the  happy  favorite  of  this  mad 
princess  ? ” 

The  count  and  his  friend  enumerated  all  whom  Corilla  appeared  to 
encourage  during  the  evening.  Anzoleto  was  absolutely  the  only  on& 
whom  they  failed  to  think  of. 


CH  APTER  V. 

A violent  struggle  arose  in  the  breast  of  the  happy  lover,  who 
agitated  and  palpitating,  was  borne  on  the  waters  through  the  tran- 
quil night,  with  the  most  celebrated  beauty  of  Venice.  Anzoleto  was 
transported  by  his  ardor,  which  gratified  vanity  rendered  still  mors 


powterftL.  On  the  other  hand,  the  fear  of  displeasing,  of  being  scorn* 
folly  dismissed  and  impeached,  restrained  his  impetuosity.  Prudent 
and  cunning,  like  a true  Venetian  as  he  was,  he  had  not  aspired  to  the 
theatre  for  more  than  six  years,  without  being  well  informed  as  to  the 
fantastic  and  imperious  woman  who  governed  all  it3  intrigues.  He 
was  well  assured  that  his  reign  would  be  of  short  duration,  and  if  he 
did  not  withdraw  from  this  dangerous  honor,  it  was  because  he  was 
taken  in  a measure  by  surprise.  He  had  merely  wished  to  gain  toler- 
rance  by  his  courtesy ; and,  behold ! his  youth,  his  beauty,  and  bud- 
ding glory,  had  inspired  love ! “ Now,”  said  Anzoleto,  with  the  rapid 
perception  which  heads  of  his  wonderful  organization  enjoy,  “ there 
is  nothing  but  to  make  myself  feared,  if  to-morrow  I would  not  be 
ridiculous.  But  how  shall  a poor  devil  like  myself  accomplish  this 
with  a haughty  beauty  like  Gorilla  ? ” He  was  soon  decided.  He  be- 
gan a system  of  distrust,  jealousy,  and  bitterness,  of  which  the  pas- 
sionate coquetry  astonished  the  prima  donna.  Their  conversation 
may  be  resumed  as  follows : — 

Anzoleto — “ I know  that  you  do  not  love  me — that  you  will  never 
love  me ; therefore  am  I sad  and  constrained  beside  you.” 

Corilla — “ And  suppose  I were  to  love  you  ? ” 

Anzoleto — “ I should  be  wretched,  because  that  were  to  fall  from 
heaven  into  the  abyss,  and  lose  you  perchance  an  hour  after  I had 
gained  you,  at  the  price  of  all  my  future  happiness.” 

Corilla — “ And  what  makes  you  think  me  so  inconstant  ? ” 

Anzoleto — “ First,  the  want  of  desert  on  my  part ; second,  the  ill 
$hat  is  said  of  you.” 

Corilla — “ And  who  dares  to  asperse  me  ? ” 

Anzoleto — “ Everybody,  because  everybody  adores  you.” 

Corilla — “ Then,  if  I were  mad  enough  to  like  you,  and  to  tell  you 
>ao,  would  you  repel  me  ? ” 

Anzoleto — “ I know  not  if  I should  have  the  power  to  fly;  but  if  I 
had,  I know  that  I should  never  behold  you  again.” 

“ Very  well,”  said  Corilla,  “ I have  a fancy  to  try  the  experiment — 
Anzoleto,  I love  you.” 

“ I do  not  believe  it,”  replied  he.  “ If  I stay,  it  is  because  I think 
you  are  only  mocking  me.  That  is  a game  at  which  you  shall  not 
frighten  me,  and  still  less  shall  you  pique  me.” 

“ You  wish  to  try  an  encounter  of  wit,  I think.” 

“ No,  indeed;  I am  not  in  the  least  to  be  dreaded,  since  I give  you 
' the  means  of  overcoming  me;  it  is  to  freeze  me  with  terror,  and  drbe 
me  from  your  presence,  in  telling  me  seriously  what  you  have  just 
now  uttered  in  jest.” 

“You  are  a knowing  fellow,  and  I see  that  one  must  be  careful 
what  one  says  to  you.  You  are  one  of  those  who  not  only  wish  to 
breathe  the  fragrance  of  the  rose,  but  would  pluck  and  preserve  it.  I 
could  not  have  supposed  you  so  bold  and  so  decided  at  your  age.” 
u And  do  you  despise  me  therefore  ? ” 

“ On  the  contrary,  I am  the  more  pleased  with  you.  Good  night, 
Anzoleto ; we  shall  see  each  other  again.” 

She  held  out  her  white  hand,  which  he  kissed  passionately.  “I 
have  got  off  famously,”  said  he,  as  he  escaped  by  the  passages  lead- 
ing from  the  Canaletto. 

Despairing  of  gaining  access  to  his  nest  at  so  late  an  hour,  h« 
thought  he  would  lie  down  at  the  first  porch,  to  gain  the  heavenly  iw. 
fete  which  infancy  and  poverty  alone  know;  tmt»  for  the  first  time  Vi 


r 


CONSUELO 


87 


his  life,  he  xmld  not  find  a slab  sufficiently  smooth  for  his  purpose 
The  pavement  of  Venice  is  the  cleanest  and  whitest  in  the  world; 
still,  the  light  dust  scattered  over  it  hardly  suited  a dark  dress  of  ele- 
gant material  and  latest  fashion.  And  then  the  propriety  of  the 
thing!  The  boatmen  who  would  have  carefully  stepped  over  the 
young  plebeian  in  the  morning,  would  have  insulted  him,  and  perhaps 
soiled  his  parasitic  livery  during  his  repose.  What  would  they  have 
thought  of  one  reposing  in  the  open  air  in  silk  stockings,  fine  linen, 
and  lace  ruffles?  Anzoleto  regretted  his  good  woollen  capa,  worn 
and  old  no  doubt,  but  thick  and  well  calculated  to  resist  the  unhealthy 
morning  fogs  of  Venice.  It  was  now  towards  the  latter  end  of  Feb- 
uary ; and,  although  the  days  at  this  period  were  warm  and  brilliant, 
the  nights  at  Venice  were  still  very  cold.  Then  he  thought  he  would 
gain  admission  into  one  of  the  gondolas  fastened  to  the  bank,  but 
they  were  all  secured  under  lock  and  key.  At  last  he  found  one  of 
which  the  door  yielded ; but  in  getting  in,  he  stumbled  over  the  legs 
of  the  barcarole,  who  had  retired  for  the  night.  “ Per  diavolo  l ” 
said  a rough  voice  from  the  bottom  of  the  cabin,  44  who  are  you,  and 
what  do  you  want  ? ” 

“ Is  it  you,  Zanetto  ? ” replied  Anzoleto,  recognizing  the  man,  who 
was  generally  very  civil  to  him;  "let  me  stretch  myself  beside  you, 
and  dream  a while  within  your  cabin.” 

44  And  who  are  you  ? ” said  Zanetto. 

“ Anzoleto : do  you  not  know  me?” 

44  Per  diavolo , no ! You  have  garments  which  Anzoleto  never  wore, 
unless  he  stole  them.  Be  off!  Were  you  the  Doge  in  person,  I would 
not  open  my  bark  to  a man  who  strutted  about  in  fine  clothes  when 
he  had  not  a corner  to  rest  in.” 

"So,  so,”  thought  Anzoleto;  “ the  protection  and  favor  of  Count 
Zustiniani  have  exposed  me  to  greater  dangers  and  annoyances  than 
they  have  procured  me  advantages.  It  is  time  that  my  fortune  should 
correspond  with  my  success,  and  I long  to  have  a few  sequins  to 
enable  me  to  support  the  station  which  I have  assumed.” 

Sufficiently  out  of  sorts,  he  sauntered  through  the  deserted  streets, 
not  daring  to  pause  a moment,  lest  the  perspiration  should  be  checked 
which  anger  and  fatigue  had  caused  to  flow  freely  forth.  44  It  is  well, 
I do  not  grow  hoarse,”  said  he  to  himself;  44  to-morrow  the  count 
will  show  me  off  to  some  foolish  Aristarchus,  who,  if  I have  the  least 
feather  in  the  throat  in  consequence  of  this  night’s  want  of  rest,  will 
say  that  I have  no  voice ; and  the  Signor  Count,  who  knows  better, 
will  repeat,  4 If  you  had  but  heard  him  last  night ! ’ 4 He  is  not  equal, 
then,’  the  other  will  observe;  4 or  perhaps  he  is  not  in  good  healthy ’ 
Dr  perhaps,’  as  a third  will  aver,  4 he  was  tired  last  night.  The 
truth  is,  he  is  very  young  to  sing  several  days  in  succession.  Had 
you  not  better  wait  till  he  is  riper  and  more  robust?  ’ And  the  count 
will  say,  4 Diavolo ! if  he  grows  hoarse  after  a couple  of  songs,  he  will 
not  answer  me.’  Then,  to  make  sure  that  I am  strong  and  well,  they 
will  make  me  exercise  every  day  till  I am  out  of  breath,  and  break 
my  voice  to  prove  that  I have  lungs.  To  the  devil  with  their  protec 
tion,  I say!  Ah!  if  I were  only  free  of  these  great  folk,  and  in  favor 
with  the  public,  and  courted  by  the  theatres,  I could  sing  in  theii 
saloons,  and  treat  with  them  as  equal  powers.” 

Thus  plotting,  Anzoleto  reached  one  of  those  little  spots  termeo 
forti  in  Venice.  Courts  indeed  they  were  not,  but  an  assemblage  ot 
hfin 19*5  opening  on  a common  space,  corresponding  with  what  in  Parfe 


8S 


C0K8UIL0, 


!•  called  cite.  But  the-e  is  nothing  in  the  disposition  of  these  pm 
tended  courts  like  the  elegant  and  systematic  arrangements  of  oui 
modern  squares.  They  are  obscure  spots,  sometimes  impassable,  at 
other  times  allowing  passage ; but  little  frequented,  and  dwelt  in  by 
persons  of  slender  fortune  — laborers,  workmen,  or  washerwomen 
who  stretch  their  linen  across  the  road,  somewhat  to  the  annoyance 
of  the  passengers,  who  put  up  with  it  in  return  for  permission  to  go 
across.  Woe  to  the  poor  artist  who  is  obliged  to  open  the  windows 
of  his  apartment  in  these  secluded  recesses,  where  rustic  life,  with  its 
noisy,  unclean  habits,  re-appears  in  the  heart  of  Venice,  not  two  steps 
from  large  canals  and  sumptuous  edifices!  Woe  to  him  if  silence  be 
necessary  to  his  occupation ! for,  from  morn  till  night,  there  is  an  in- 
terminable uproar,  with  children,  fowls,  and  dogs,  screaming  and 
playing  within  the  narrow  space,  the  chatter  of  women  in  the  porches, 
and  the  songs  of  workmen,  which  do  not  leave  him  a moment  of  re- 
pose. Happy,  too,  if  improvisatori  do  not  bawl  their  sonnets  till  they 
have  gathered  a coin  from  every  window ; or  Brighella  do  not  fix  her 
station  in  the  court,  ready  to  begin  her  dialogue  afresh  with  the  “ avo - 
catOy  il  tedesco,  e il  diavolo”  until  she  has  exhausted  in  vain  her  elo- 
quence before  the  dirty  children — happy  spectators,  who  do  not  scru- 
ple to  listen  and  to  look  on,  although  they  have  not  a farthing  in  their 
possession. 

But  atnight,  when  all  is  silent,  and  when  the  quiet  moon  lights  up 
the  scene,  this  assemblage  of  houses  of  every  period,  united  to  each 
other  without  symmetry  or  pretension,  divided  by  deep  shadows  full 
of  mystery  in  their  recesses,  and  of  a wild  spontaneous  beauty,  pre- 
sents an  infinitely  picturesque  assemblage.  Everything  is  beautiful 
under  the  light  of  the  moon.  The  least  architectural  effect  assumes 
force  and  character,  and  the  meanest  balcony,  with  its  clustering  vine, 
reminds  you  of  Spain  and  of  romantic  adventures  with  the  cloak  and 
sword.  The  clear  atmosphere  in  which  the  distant  cupolas  rising 
above  the  dark  mass  are  bathed,  sheds  on  the  minutest  details  of  the 
picture  a vague  yet  harmonious  coloring,  which  invites  one  to  reveries 
without  end. 

It  was  in  the  Corte  Minelli,  near  the  church  of  San  Fan  tin,  that 
Anzoleto  found  himself  when  the  clocks  of  the  different  churches 
tolled  the  hour  of  two.  A secret  instinct  had  led  his  devious  steps  to 
the  dwelling  of  one  of  whom  he  had  not  thought  since  the  setting  of 
the  sun.  Hardly  had  he  entered  the  court,  when  he  heard  a sweet 
voice  call  him  by  the  last  syllables  of  his  name;  and  raising  his  head 
he  saw  for  an  instant  a faint  profile  shadow  itself  on  one  of  the  most 
miserable  abodes  of  the  place.  A moment  afterwards  a door  opened 
and  Consuelo,  in  a muslin  petticoat  and  wrapped  in  an  old  black  silk 
mantle  which  had  served  as  adornment  for  her  mother,  extended  one 
hand  to  him,  while  at  the  same  time  she  placed  her  finger  on  her  lip 
to  enforce  silence.  They  crept  up  the  ruined  stair,  and  seated  at 
length  on  the  terrace,  they  began  one  of  those  long  whispering  con- 
versations, interrupted  by  kisses,  which  one  hears  by  night  along  the 
level  roofs,  like  the  converse  of  wandering  spirits  wafted  through  the 
mist,  amidst  the  strange  chimneys,  hooded  with  red  turbans,  of  all  the 
houses  of  Venice. 

" How,  my  poor  friend  } said  Anzoleto ; “ have  you  waited  for  me 
until  now  ? ” 

“ Did  you  not  say  you  would  give  me  an  account  of  the  evening, 
and  tell  me  if  you  sang  well— if  you  afforded  pleasure — if  they  ap 
gl&uded  you— u they  signed  your  engagement! 


CO  NSU  E IrO 


M 

* And  you,  my  best  Consuelo,”  said  Anzoleto,  struck  with  remonw 
on  seeing  the  confidence  and  sweetness  of  this  poor  girl,  “ tell  me  if 
my  long  absence  has  made  you  impatient — if  you  are  not  tired — if 
you  do  not  feel  chill  on  this  cold  terrace — if  you  have  already  supped 
— if  you  are  not  angry  with  me  for  coming  so  late — if  you  are  uneasy 
— if  you  found  fault  with  me.” 

“ No  such  thing,”  she  replied,  throwing  her  arm3  about  his  neck. 
“ If  I have  been  impatient,  it  was  not  with  you ; if  I fejt  wearied — if 
I was  cold — I am  no  longer  so,  since  you  are  here.  Whether  I have 
supped  or  not,  I do  not  know ; whether  I have  found  fault  with  you  ? 
—Why  should  I find  fault  with  you  ? — if  1 have  been  disquieted  ? — 
why  should  I have  been  so? — if  I have  been  angry  with  you?— nev- 
er!” 

“ You  are  an  angel ! ” said  Anzoleto,  returning  her  caress.  “Ah,  my 
only  consolation ! how  cold  and  perfidious  are  all  other  hearts  I ” 

“ Alas ! what  has  happened ! — what  have  they  done  to  the  son  of 
my  soul?  ” exclaimed  Consuelo,  mixing  with  the  sweet  Yenetian  dia- 
lect the  passionate  expressions  of  her  native  tongue. 

Anzoleto  told  her  all  that  had  happened  — even  to  his  gallantries 
with  Corilla,  and  more  especially  the  encouragement  which  she  held 
out  to  him ; only  he  smoothed  matters  over  somewhat,  saying  nothing 
that  could  vex  Consuelo,  since  in  point  of  fact  he  had  been  faithful — 
and  he  told  almost  all.  But  there  is  always  some  minute  particle  of 
truth  on  which  judicial  inquiry  has  never  thrown  light — which  no 
client  has  revealed  to  his  advocate — which  no  sentence  has  ever  aimed 
at  except  by  chance — because  in  these  few  secret  facts  or  intentions  is 
the  entire  cause,  the  motive,  the  aim — the  object  in  a word — of  these 
great  suits,  always  so  badly  pleaded  and  always  so  badly  judged,  what- 
ever may  be  the  ardor  of  the  speakers  or  the  coolness  of  the  magis- 
trate. 

To  return  to  Anzoleto.  It  is  not  necessary  to  say  what  pecadilloes 
he  omitted,  what  emotions  in  public  he  translated  in  his  own  fashion, 
what  secret  palpitations  in  the  gondola  he  forgot  to  mention.  I do 
not  think  he  even  spoke  of  the  gondola  at  all,  and  as  to  his  flatteries 
at  the  cantatrice,  why  they  were  adroit  mystifications  by  means  of 
which  he  escaped  her  perilous  advances  without  making  her  angry. 
Wherefore,  being  unwilling,  and  I may  add  unable,  to  mention  all  the 
temptations  which  he  had  surmounted  by  his  prudence  and  caution, 
why,  dear  lady  reader,  should  the  young  rogue  awaken  jealousy  in 
the  bosom  of  Consuelo?  Happily  for  the  little  Spaniard  she  knew 
nothing  of  jealousy.  This  dark  and  bitter  feeling  only  afflicts  souls 
that  have  greatly  suffered,  and  hitherto  Consuelo  had  been  happy  in 
her  affection  as  she  was  good.  The  only  thing  that  made  a pro- 
found impression  upon  her  was  the  severe  yet  flattering  denunciation 
of  Professor  Porpora  on  the  adored  head  of  Anzoleto.  She  made 
him  repeat  all  the  expressions  which  the  maestro  had  used,  and  when 
he  had  done  so,  pondered  on  them  long  and  earnestly. 

“ My  little  Consuelo,”  said  Anzoleto  without  remarking  her  ab- 
straction, “it  is  horribly  cold  here.  Are  you  not  afraid  of  getting 
cold  ? Think,  my  dear,  that  our  prospects  depend  much  more  upon 
your  voice  than  mine.” 

“ I never  get  cold,”  said  she ; “ but  you  are  so  lightly  dressed  with 
your  fine  clothes.  Here  now,  put  on  this  mantle.” 

“ What  would  you  have  me  do  with  this  fine  bit  of  torn  taffewi?  > 
$ould  rather  take  shelter  for  half  m hour  in  your 


40 


CONSUELO. 


“’Tiswell,”  said  Consuelo,  “but  tben  we  must  not  speak;  the 
neighbors  would  hear  us,  and  we  should  be  to  blame.  They  are  not 
ill-disposed;  they  see  us  together  without  tormenting  me  about  it,  be- 
cause they  know  very  well  you  do  not  come  here  at  night.  You 
would  do  better  to  sleep  at  home.” 

“ Impossible  ! They  will  only  open  at  daylight,  and  there  are  still 
three  hours  to  watch.  See,  my  teeth  chatter  with  the  cold  ! ” 

“ Well,”  said  Consuelo,  getting  up,  “I  shall  let  you  into  my  room 
and  return  to  the  terrace,  so  that  if  anybody  should  observe  it,  it  will 
be  seen  there  is  nothing  wrong.” 

She  brought  him  into  a dilapidated  apartment,  where,  under  flow- 
ers and  frescoes  on  the  wall,  appeared  a second  picture,  almost  in  a 
worse  condition  than  the  first.  A large  square  bed  with  a mattress  of 
sea-weed,  and  a spotted  muslin  coverlet,  perfectly  clean  but  patched 
with  fragments  of  every  imaginable  color;  a straw  chair,  a little  table, 
an  antique  guitar,  a filagree  cross — the  only  wealth  her  mother  had  left 
— a spinet,  a great  heap  of  worm-eaten  music,  which  Professor  Pro- 
pora  was  kind  enough  to  lend— such  was  the  furniture  of  the  young 
aiitist,  daughter  of  a poor  Bohemian,  the  pupil  of  a celebrated  master, 
and  sweetheart  of  a handsome  adventurer.  A s there  was  but  one  chair, 
and  as  the  table  was  covered  with  music,  there  was  no  seat  for  Anzo- 
leto  but  the  bed,  on  which  he  placed  himself  without  hesitation. 
Hardly  was  he  seated,  when  overwhelmed  with  fatigue,  his  head  fell 
upon  the  woolen  cushion  which  served  as  a pillow;  but.  almost  im- 
mediately starting  up  again  by  a violent  effort,  he  exclaimed  — 

‘‘And  you,  my  poor  girl ! are  you  going  to  take  no  rest?  Ah  ! I am 
a wretch — I shall  go  and  lie  in  the  streets." 

“ No,”  said  Consuelo,  gently  thrusting  him  back;  “ you  are  ill  and 
I am  not.  My  mother  died  a good  Catholic;  she  is  now  in  heaven, 
and  sees  us  at  this  very  hour.  She  knows  you  have  kept  the  promise 
you  made  to  her,  never  to  abandon  me.  She  knows  that  our  affection 
has  been  pure  since  her  death  as  before.  She  sees  at  this  moment 
that  I neither  do  nor  think  what  is  wrong — that  her  soul  may  repose 
in  the  Lord  !”  And  here  Consuelo  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  An- 
zoleto  already  slumbered.  ‘‘  I am  going  to  tell  my  beads,”  continued 
Consuelo,  moving  away,  “that  you  may  not  take  the  fever.” 

“ Angel  that  you  are  !”  faintly  murmured  Anzoleto,  and  he  did  not 
even  perceive  that  he  was  alone.  She  had  gone,  in  fact,  to  the  ter- 
race. In  a short  time  she  returned  to  assure  herself  that  he  was  not 
ill,  and,  finding  that  he  slept  tranquilly,  she  gazed  long  and  earnestly 
at  his  beautiful  face,  as  it  lay  lighted  by  the  moon. 

Then,  determined  to  resist  drowsiness  herself,  and  finding  that  the 
emotions  of  the  evening  had  caused  her  to  neglect  her  work,  she 
lighted  the  lamp,  and  seated  before  the  little  table,  she  noted  a com- 
position which  Master  Porpora  had  required  of  her  for  the  following 
day. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Count  Zustiniani,  notwithstanding  his  philosophical  composure 
was  not  so  indifferent  to  the  insolent  caprices  of  Corilla  as  he  pre- 
tended. Good-natured,  weak,  frivolous,  Zustiniani  was  only  a rake  in 


43  OH  SUKLtt 


41 

Appearance  and  by  his  social  position.  He  could  not  help  feeling  a! 
the  bottom  of  his  heart  the  ungrateful  return  which  this  insolent  and 
foolish  girl  had  made  to  his  generosity ; and  though  at  that  period  it 
was  considered  the  worst  possible  taste,  as  well  at  Venice  as  at  Paris, 
to  seem  jealous,  his  Italian  pride  revolted  at  the  absurd  and  miserable 
position  in  which  Corilla  had  placed  him.  So,  the  same  afternoon 
that  had  seen  Anzoleto  shine  at  he  Palazzo  Zustiniani,  the  count, 
after  having  laughed  with  Barberigo  over  the  tricks  of  Corilla,  his 
saloons  being  emptied  and  the  wax-lights  extinguished,  took  down  his 
Joak  and  sword,  and,  in  order  to  ease  his  mind,  set  off  for  the  palazzo 
nhabited  by  his  mistress. 

He  found  that  she  was  alone,  but  still  doubted  her.  He  began  to 
converse  in  a low  voice  with  the  barcarole  who  was  mooring  the  gon- 
dola of  the  prima  dohna  under  the  arch  reserved  for  that  purpose ; 
and,  by  virtue  of  a few  sequins,  he  easily  convinced  himself  that  he 
was  not  mistaken,  and  that  Corilla  had  not  been  alone  in  the  gondola; 
but  who  tt  was  that  had  accompanied  her  he  could  not  ascertain — the 
gondolier  knew  not.  He  had  met  Anzoleto  a hundred  times  in  the 
passages  of  the  theatre,  or  near  the  Palazzo  Zustiniani,  but  failed  to 
recognise  him  when  powdered  and  in  his  dark  attire. 

This  inscrutable  mystery  completed  the  count’s  annoyance.  He 
consoled  himself  with  ridiculing  his  rival,  the  only  vengeance  which 
good  breeding  permitted,  and  not  less  cruel  in  a gay  and  frivolous  age 
than  murder  at  more  serious  periods.  He  could  not  sleep ; and  at 
the  hour  when  Porpora  began  his  instructions,  he  set  out  for  the 
Scuola  di  Mendicanti,  and  the  hall  where  the  young  pupils  were  wont 
to  assemble. 

The  position  of  the  count  with  regard  to  the  learned  professor  was 
for  some  years  past  much  changed.  Zustiniani  was  no  longer  the 
musical  antagonist  of  Porpora,  but  in  some  sort  his  associate  and 
leader.  He  had  advanced  considerable  sums  to  the  establishment 
over  which  the  learned  maestro  presided,  and  out  of  gratitude  the 
directors  had  invested  him  with  the  supreme  control.  The  two  asso- 
ciates then  were  as  good  friends  as  could  be  expected  from  the  intol- 
erance of  the  maestro  with  regard  to  the  music  in  vogue — an  intoler- 
ance, however,  which  was  considerably  softened  by  the  assistance  and 
resources  lavished  by  the  count  in  behalf  of  the  propagation  of 
serious  music.  Besides,  the  latter  had  brought  out  at  San  Samuel  an, 
opera  which  the  maestro  had  written. 

“ My  dear  master,”  said  Zustiniani,  drawing  Porpora  aside,  “ you 
must  not  only  give  me  one  of  your  pupils  for  the  theatre,  but  say 
which  of  them  is  best  calculated  to  replace  Corilla.  That  artist  i« 
worn  out,  her  voice  has  decayed,  her  caprices  ruin  us,  and  the  publis 
will  be  disgusted.  Truly,  we  must  obtain  a succeditrice.”  Pardon, 
dear  reader,  for  this  was  said  in  Italian,  and  the  count  made  no  mis- 
take. 

“ I have  not  got  what  you  require,”  replied  Porpora,  dryly. 

“What!  my  dear  maestro,”  exclaimed  the  count,  “you  are  not 
going  to  fall  back  into  your  dark  moods  ? Is  it  after  all  the  sacrifices 
and  all  the  devotion  which  I have  manifested  towards  you,  that  you 
are  going  to  deny  me  a slight  favor  when  I ask  your  assistance  and 
advice  in  my  own  behalf?  ,r 

“ I should  not  be  justified  in  doing  so,”  repliecLthe  professor,  “ and 
what  I have  just  said  is  the  trir.h,  told  you  by  a friend,  and  with  the 
doaiis  to  oblige  you.  I have  not  in  my  school  a single  person  capable 


r 


41  COMStJKLO. 

ef  replacing  Gorilla.  I do  not  estimate  her  higher  than  she  deserve* 
yet  in  declaring  that  the  talent  of  this  girl  has  no  real  worth  In  my 
eyes,  I am  forced  to  acknowledge  that  she  possesses  an  experience,  a 
skill,  a facility,  and  a sympathy  with  the  public,  which  can  only  be 
acquired  by  years  of  practice,  and  which  could  not  be  obtained  by 
other  debutantes  for  a long  time.” 

“ That  is  true,”  said  the  count ; “ but  we  made  Corilla,  we  saw  her 
begin,  we  procured  the  approbation  of  the  public ; her  beauty  gained 
her  three-fourths  of  her  success,  and  you  have  individuals  equally 
agreeable  in  your  school.  You  cannot  deny  that,  master.  Come, 
admit  that  Clorinda  is  the  most  beautiful  creature  in  the  universe.” 

“ Yes,  but  saucy,  simpering,  intolerable. — The  public  perhaps  may 
Cud  her  grimaces  charming — but  she  sings  false,  she  has  neither  soul 
nor  intelligence.  It  is  true  that  the  public  has  only  ears;  but  then 
she  has  neither  memory  nor  address,  and  she  could  only  save  herself 
from  condemnation  by  the  happy  charlatanism  that  succeeds  with  so 
many  others.” 

Thus  saying,  the  professor  cast  an  Involuntary  glance  upon  Anzo- 
lejo,  who,  under  favor  of  the  count,  and  on  pretence  of  listening  to 
the  class,  had  kept  a little  apart,  attending  to  the  conversation. 

“ It  matters  not,”  said  Zustiniani,  who  heeded  little  the  master's 
rancour;  “ I shall  not  give  up  my  project.  It  is  long  since  I have 
heard  Clorinda.  Let  her  come  with  five  or  six  others,  the  prettiest 
that  can  be  found.  Come,  Anzoleto,”  said  he,  smiling,  “ you  are  well 
enough  attired  to  assume  the  grave  air  of  a young  professor.  Go  to 
the  garden  and  speak  to  the  most  striking  of  these  young  beauties, 
i and  tell  them  that  the  professor  and  I expect  them  here.’' 

Anzoleto  obeyed,  but  whether  through  malice  or  address,  he 
brought  the  ugliest,  so  that  then  Jacques  might  have  said  for  once 
with  truth,  “ Sofia  was  one-eyed,  and  Cattina  was  a cripple.” 

This  quid  jpro  quo  was  taken  in  good  part:  and  after  they  had 
laughed  in  their  sleeves,  they  issed  them,  in  order  to  send  those 
of  their  companions  whom  the  professor  named.  A charming  group 
soon  made  their  appearance,  with  Clorinda  at  their  head. 

“ What  magnificent  hair  1 ” exclaimed  the  count,  as  the  latter  passed 
him  with  her  superb  tresses. 

“ There  is  much  more  on  than  in  that  head,”  said  the  professor, 
without  deigning  to  lower  his  voice. 

After  an  hour's  trial,  the  count  could  stand  it  no  ionger,  but  with 
courteous  expressions  to  the  young  ladies,  retired  full  of  consterna- 
tion, after  saying  in  the  professor's  ear,  “ we  must  not  think  of  these 
cockatoos ! ” 

“ Would  your  Excellency  permit  me  to  say  a word  respecting  the 
subject  which  occupies  you,”  said  Anzoleto  in  a low  voice  to  the 
count  as  they  descended  the  steps. 

“ Speak,”  said  the  count;  “do  yon  know  this  marvel  wbsm  we 
seek  ? ” 

^ “Yes,  ExceHenza.” 

“ In  what  sea  will  you  fish  up  this  precious  pearl? ” 

" At  the  bottom  of  the  class,  where  the  jealous  Porpora  places  her 
on  the  day  when  you  pass  your  female  battalion  in  review.” 

“What  I is  there  a diamond  in  the  school  whose  spleudor  has  never 
reached  my  eyes  ? If  Master  Porpora  has  played  me  such  a trick ! — ” 
“ Illustrious,  the  diamond  of  vhich  I speak  is  not  strictly  part  of  the 
school:  she  is  only  a poor  gir1  who  sings  in  the  choruses  when  they 


OOH8UXLO. 


*8 


require  her  xeryices,  and  to  whom  the  professor  gives  lessons  partly 
through  charity,  but  still  more  from  love  of  his  art.” 

" In  that  case  her  abilities  must  be  extraordinary,  for  the  professor 
& not  easily  satisfied,  and  in  no  way  prodigal  of  his  time  and  labor. 
Could  I have  heard  her  perchance  without  knowing  it  ? ” 

“ Your  Excellency  heard  her  long  ago  when  she  was  but  a child 
Now  she  is  a young  woman — able,  studious,  wise  as  the  professor 
himself,  and  capable  of  extinguishing  Gorilla  on  the  first  occasion  dial 
she  sings  a single  air  beside  her  in  the  theatre.” 

" Does  she  never  sing  in  public  ? Did  she  not  sing  sometimes  at 
vespers  ? ” 

“ Formerly,  your  Excellency,  the  professor  took  pleasure  in  he&rin$ 
her  sing  in  the  church:  but  since  then  the  scolari , through  jeatousj 
and  revenge,  have  threatened  to  chase  her  from  the  tribune  if  s&e  re 
appears  there  by  their  side.” 

“ She  is  a girl  of  bad  conduct  then  ° ” 

“ Oh  Heavens  1 she  is  a virgin,  purt  as  the  newly  fallen  snow  ! Bn 
she  is  poor  and  of  mean  extraction — like  myself,  Eccellenza,  whon 
you  yet  deign  to  elevate  by  your  goodness — and  these  wicked  I arpte 
have  threatened  to  complain  to  you  of  bringing  into  their  class  xpupi 
who  did  not  belong  to  it.” 

“ Where  can  I hear  this  wonder?  ” 

“ Let  your  Highness  order  the  professor  to  make  her  sin#  before 
you,  and"  you  can  then  judge  of  her  voice  and  the  amoun*  of  he 
talent.” 

" Your  confidence  inclines  me  to  believe  you.  You  say  I h^ard  he? 
long  since  ? — I cannot  remember  when.” 

“ In  the  church  of  the  Mendicanti,  on  a general  rehears*!  of  tin 
• Sc  Jue  Regina * of  Pergolese.” 

‘k  Oh,  I remember  now,”  exclaimed  the  count;  " voice,  event,  an*, 
intelligence  equally  admirable ! ” 

" She  was  then  but  fourteen,  my  lord — no  better  than  a f/iild.” 

“ Yes— but  now  I think  of  it,  I remember  she  was  not  Wndsome/ 
"Not  handsome,  Excellenza I ” exclaimed  Anzoleto  vpiite 
tounded. 

“ She  was  called— let  me  see— was  it  not  a Spanish  nr**e? — some 
thing  out  of  the  way  ? ” 

" It  was  Consuelo,  my  lord.” 

u Yes,  that  is  the  name;  you  were  to  marry  her  then.  * ntep  whief 
made  the  professor  and  myself  laugh  a little.  Consuelo-  -yes,  it  is  th* 
same;  the  favorite  of  the  professor,  an  intelligent  girl,  bu^  very  ugly-5 
" Yery  ugly?  ” repeated  Anzoleto,  as  f stupefied. 

"Yes,  my  child.  Do  you  still  admire  her*?  ” 

" She  is  mon  amie , Illustrissimo.” 

" Amie  / that  is  to  say,  sister  or  sweetheart,  which  of  the  two  Y ” 

" Sister,  my  master.” 

In  that  case  I can  give  you  an  answer  without  paining  you ; you  i 
idea  is  devoid  of  common  sense.  To  replace  Corilla  it  would  require 
an  angel  of  beauty,  and  your  Consuelo,  if  I remember  rightly,  was  nov 
only  ugly  but  frightful ! ” 

The  count  was  accosted  at  this  moment  by  one  of  his  friends,  and 
left  Anzoleto,  who  was  struck  dumb  with  amazement,  and  w tic 
peated  with  a v'gh, " She  is  frightful  l ” 


44 


OOVIUliO 


CHAPTER  TIL 

It  mar  appear  rather  astonishing,  dear  reader,  and  yet  It  la  veiy» 
certain,  that  Anzo.eto  never  had  formed  an  opinion  of  the  beauty  or 
the  ugliness  of  Consuelo.  Consuelo  was  a being  so  solitary,  so  un- 
known in  Venice,  that  no  one  had  thought  of  seeking  whether,  be- 
neath this  veil  of  isolation  and  obscurity,  intelligence  and  goodness 
had  ended  by  showing  themselves  under  an  agreeable  or  insignificant 
form.  Poipora,  who  had  no  senses  but  for  his  art,  had  only  seen  in 
her  the  artist.  Her  neighbors  of  the  Corte  Minelli  observed,  without 
attaching  any  blame  to  it,  her  innocent  love  for  Anzoleto.  At  Venice 
they  are  not  particular  on  this  score.  They  predicted  indeed  very 
often,  that  she  would  be  unhappy  with  this  youth  without  business  or 
calling,  and  they  counselled  her  rather  to  seek  to  establish  herself 
with  some  honest  workman.  But  she  replied  to  them  that,  as  she 
herself  was  without  friends  or  support,  Anzoleto  suited  her  per* 
fectly,  and  as  for  six  years  no  day  had  passed  without  their  seeing 
them  together,  never  seeking  any  concealment  and  never  quarreling, 
they  had  ended  by  accustoming  themselves  to  their  free  and  apparent- 
ly indissoluble  union,  and  no  neighbor  had  ever  paid  court  to  the 
arnica  of  Anzoleto.  Whether  was  this  owing  to  her  supposed  engage* 
ment  or  to  her  extreme  poverty ! — or  was  it,  perhaps,  that  her  person 
had  no  attractions  for  them  ? This  last  supposition  is  the  most  pro* 
bable. 

Every  one  knows,  however,  that  from  fourteen  to  fifteen,  girls  are 
generally  thin,  out  of  sorts,  without  harmony  either  as  to  proportions 
or  movements.  Towards  fifteen,  to  use  a common  expression,  they 
undergo  a sort  of  fusion,  after  which  they  become,  if  not  pretty,  at 
least  agreeable.  It  has  even  been  remarked  that  it  is  not  desirable 
that  a young  girl  should  grow  good-looking  too  early. 

Consuelo,  like  others,  had  gained  all  the  benefits  of  adolescence ; 
she  was  no  longer  called  ugly,  simply  because  she  had  ceased  to  be  so. 
As  she  was  neither  Dauphine  nor  infanta,  however,  there  were  no 
crowds  of  courtiers  to  proclaim  that  her  royal  highness  grew  day  by 
day  more  beautiful ; and  no  one  was  sufficiently  solicitous  to  tell  An- 
zoleto that  he  should  have  no  occasion  to  blush  for  his  bride. 

Since  Anzoleto  had  heard  her  termed  ugly  at  an  age  when  the  word 
had  neither  sense  nor  meaning,  he  had  forgotten  to  think  about  it; 
his  vanity  had  taken  another  direction.  The  theatre  and  renown 
were  all  his  care,  and  he  had  no  time  to  think  of  conquests.  His 
curiosity  was  appeased — he  had  no  more  to  learn.  At  twenty-two  he 
was  in  a measure  blast;  yet  his  affection  for  Consuelo  was  tranquil  as 
at  eighteen,  despite  a few  chaste  kisses,  taken  as  they  were  given, 
without  shame. 

Let  us  not  be  astonished  at  this  calmness  and  propriety  on  the  part 
of  a youth  in  other  respects  not  ove : particular.  Our  young  people 
had  ceased  to  live  as  described  at  the  beginning  of  this  history.  Con- 
suelo, now  nearly  sixteen,  continued  her  somewhat  wandering  life, 
leaving  the  conservatory  to  eat  her  rice  and  repeat  her  lesson  on  the 
steps  of  the  Piazetta  with  Anzoleto.  When  her  mother,  worn  out  by 
fatigue,  ceased  to  sing  for  charity  in  the  coffee-houses  in  the  evening* 
the  poor  creature  sought  refuge  in  one  of  the  most  miserable  garrets 
& the  Corte  Minelli,  to  die  upon  a pallet,  Then  the  good  Consuelo 


CONSUBLO 


quitting  her  no  more,  entirely  changed  her  manner  of  lift.  Exclusive 
of  the  hours  when  the  professor  deigned  to  give  his  lessons,  she  1»* 
bored  sometimes  at  her  needle,  sometimes  at  counter-point,  but  al- 
ways at  the  bedside  of  her  imperious  and  despairing  mother,  who  had 
cruelly  ill-treated  her  in  her  infancy,  and  who  now  presented  the 
frightful  spectacle  of  a last  struggle  without  courage  and  without 
virtue.  The  filial  piety  and  devotion  of  Consuelo  never  flagged  for  a 
single  instant.  The  pleasures  of  youth  and  of  her  free  and  wander- 
ing life*— even  love  itself— all  were  sacrificed  without  a moment’s  hes- 
itation or  regret.  Anzoleto  made  bitter  complaints,  but  finding  re* 

E roaches  useless,  resolved  to  forge.*  her  and  to  amuse  himself ; but  this 
e found  impossible.  He  had  none  of  the  industry  of  Consuelo ; he 
learned  quickly  but  imperfectly  the  inferior  lessons  which  his  teacher 
to  gain  the  salary  promised  by  Zustiniani,  gave  him  equally  quickly 
and  equally  ill.  This  was  all  very  well  for  Anzoleto,  in  whom  prodi- 
gal nature  made  up  for  lost  time  and  the  effects  of  inferior  instruc- 
tion, but  there  were  hours  of  leisure  during  which  the  friehdly  and 
cheerful  society  of  Consuelo  were  found  sadly  wanting.  He  tried  to 
addict  himself  to  the  habits  of  his  class ; he  frequented  public-houses, 
and  wasted  with  young  scapegraces  the  trifling  bounties  he  enjoyed 
through  the  iavor  of  Count  Zustiniani.  This  sort  of  life  pleased  him 
for  some  week* ; but  he  soon  found  that  his  health  and  his  voice  were 
becoming  sensibly  impaired— that  the  far-niente  was  not  excess,  and 
that  excess  was  not  his  element,  Preserved  from  bad  passion* 
through  a higher  species  of  self-love,  he  retired  to  solitude  and  study; 
but  they  only  presented  a frightful  mixture  of  gloom  and  difficulty.; 
He  saw  that  Consuelo  was  no  less  necessary  to  his  talents  than  to  his 
happiness.  She  was  studious  and  persevering— livingln  an  atmosphere 
of  music  as  a bird  in  the  air,  or  a fish  in  the  wave— loving  to^overcoma; 
difficulties  without  inquiring  into  their  nature  any  more  than  a child 
—but  impelled  to  combat  the  obstacles  and  penetrate  the  mysteriea 
of  art,  by  an  instinct  invisible  as  that  which  causes  the  germ  to  pen- 
etrate the  soil  and  seek  the  air.  Consuelo  enjoyed  one  of  those  rara 
and  happy  temperaments  for  which  labor  is  an,enjoyment,  a sort  of  re* 
pose,  a necessary  condition,  and  to  which  inaction  would  be  an  effort* 
a waste,  in  short,  a disease — if  inaction  indeed  to  such  natures  were 
possible.  But  they  know  nothing  of  the  kind ; in  apparent  idlenes* 
they  still  labor,  but  it  is  not  so  much  reverie  as  meditation;  In  sea-[ 
ing  them  act,  one  would  suppose  that  they  were  creating,  whereat 
they  but  give  expression  to  what  has  been  already  created.  You  will 
tell  me,  gentle  reader,  that  you  have  never  known  such  rare  tempera^ 
ments ; to  which  I shall  reply,  dearly  beloved  reader,  that  I have  met' 
with  but  one.  If  so,  am  I older  than  you  ? Why  can  I not  tell  you 
that  I have  analyzed  in  my  own  poor  brain  the  divine  mystery  of  this 
Intellectual  activity  ? But  alas  I friendly  reader,  it  is  neither  you  nor, 
I who  shall  study  this  in  ourselves. 

Consuelo  worked  on,  amusing  herself  the  while.  She  persisted  for 
hours  together,  either  by  free  and  capricious  flights  of  song  or  by 
study  on  the  book,  to  vanquish  difficulties  which  would  have  repelled 
Anzoleto  if  left  to  himself;  and  without  any  idea  of  emulation  oii 
premeditated  design,  she  forced  him  to  follow  her,  to  second  her,  to» 
comprehend  and  to  reply  to  her — sometimes,  as  it  were,  in  the  midstt 
of  almost  childish  bursts  cf  laughter — sometimes  borne  away  by  th# 
poetic  and  creative  fantasia , which  pervades  the  popular  tempera* 
ttient  of  Italy  and  Spain.  During  the  many  years  in  which  he 


OONSUBLO 


40 

Influenced  by  the  genius  of  Consuelo — drinking  at  a source  which  ti 
did  not  comprehend— copying  her  without  knowing  it— Anzoloto,  held 
Desides  in  chains  by  his  indolence,  had  become  a strange  compound 
of  knowledge  and  ignorance,  of  inspiration  and  frivolity,  of  power 
and  weakness,  of  boldness  and  awkwardness,  such  as  had  plunged 
Porpora  at  the  last  rehearsal  into  a perfect  labyrinth  of  meditation 
and  conjecture.  The  maestro  did  not  know  the  secret  of  the  riches 
he  had  borrowed  from  Consuelo ; for  having  once  severely  scolded  the 
little  one  for  her  intimacy  with  this  great  idler,  he  had  never  again 
seen  them  together. — Consuelo,  bent  upon  maintaining  the  good-wilJ 
of  her  master,  took  care  whenever  she  saw  him  at  a distance,  if  in 
company  with  Anzoleto,  to  hide  herself  with  agile  bounds  behind  a 
column,  or  to  disappear  in  the  recesses  of  some  gondola. 

These  precautions  were  still  continued,  when,  Consuelo  having  be- 
come a nurse,  Anzoleto,  unable  to  support  her  absence,  and  feeiing 
life,  hope,  inspiration,  and  even  existence  failing  him,,  returned  to  share 
her  sedentary  life,  and  to  bear  with  her  the  sourness  and  angry  whims 
of  the  dying  woman.  Some  months  before  the  close  of  her  life,  the 
unhappy  creature,  broken  down  by  her  sufferings,  and  vanquished  by 
the  filial  piety  of  her  daughter,  felt  her  soul  opened  to  milder  emotions. 
She  habituated  herself  to  the  attentions  of  Anzoleto,  who,  although 
little  accustomed  to  acts  of  friendship  and  self-denial,  displayed  a zeal- 
ous kindness  and  good-will  towards  the  feeble  sufferer.  Anzoleto  had 
an  even  temper  and  gentle  demeanor.  His  perseverance  towards  her 
and  Consuelo  at  length  won  her  heart,  and  in  her  last  moments  she 
made  them  promise  never  to  abandon  each  other.  Anzoleto  promised, 
and  even  felt  in  this  solemn  act  a depth  of  feeling  to  which  he  had 
been  hitherto  a stranger.  The  dying  woman  made  the  engagement 
easier  to  him  by  saying : — “ Let  her  be  your  friend,  your  sister,  or  your 
wife,  only  leave  her  not;  she  knows  none,  has  listened  to  none,  but 
you.” 

Consuelo,  now  an  orphan,  continued  to  ply  her  needle  and  study 
music,  as  well  to  procure  means  for  the  present  as  to  prepare  for  her 
union  with  Anzoleto.  During  two  years  he  continue^  to  visit  her  in 
her  garret,  without  experiencing  any  passion  for  her,  or  being  able  to 
feel  it  for  others,  so  much  did  the  charm  of  being  with  her  seem  pref- 
erable to  all  other  things. 

Without  ftilly  appreciating  the  lofty  faculties  of  his  companion,  he 
could  see  that  her  attainments  and  capabilities  were  superior  to  those 
of  any  of  the  singers  at  San  Samuel,  or  even  to  those  of  Corilla  her- 
self. To  this  habitual  affection  were  now  added  the  hope,  and  almost 
the  conviction,  that  a community  of  interests  would  render  their  fu- 
ture existence  at  once  brilliant  and  profitable.  Consuelo  thought  lit- 
tle of  the  future:  foresight  was  not  among  her  good  qualities.  She 
would  have  cultivated  music  without  any  other  end  in  view  than  that 
of  fulfilling  her  vocation ; and  the  community  of  interest  which  the 
practice  of  that  art  was  to  realise  between  her  and  her  friend,  had  no 
other  meaning  to  her  than  that  of  an  association  of  happiness  and 
affection.  It  was  therefore  without  apprising  her  of  it,  that  he  con- 
ceived the  hope  of  realizing  their  dreams ; and  learning  that  Zustini- 
ani  had  decided  on  replacing  Corilla,  Anzoleto,  sagaciously  divining 
the  wishes  of  his  patron,  had  made  the  proposal  which  has  already 
been  mentioned. 

But  Consuelo’s  ugliness — this  strange,  unexpected,  and  invincible 
drawback,  U the  count  indeed  were  not  deceived — had  struck  tatiwx; 


OOKSUBIO 


47 


And  consternation  to  his  soul.  So  he  retraced  his  steps  to  the  Corte 
Minelli,  stopping  every  instant  to  recal  to  his  mind  in  a new  point  of 
▼lew  the  likeness  of  his  friend,  and  to  repeat  again  and  again,  “ Not 
pretty  ?— ugly  ?— frightful  ? ” 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

“ Why  do  you  stare  at  me  so  ? ” said  Consuelo,  seeing  him  entet 
her  apartment,  and  fix  a steady  gaze  upon  her,  without  uttering  a 
word.  “ One  would  think  you  had  never  seen  me  before.” 

“ It  is  true,  Consuelo,”  he  replied ; “ I have  never  seen  you.” 

“ Are  you  mad  ? ” continued  she ; “ I know  not  what  you  mean.” 

“ Ah,  Heaven ! I fear  I am,”  exclaimed  Anzoleto.  “ I have  a dark, 
hideous  spot  in  my  brain,  which  prevents  me  from  seeing  you.” 

“ Holy  Virgin ! you  are  ill,  my  friend ! ” 

“ No,  dear  girl ; calm  yourself,  and  let  us  endeavor  to  see  clearly. 
Tell  me,  Consuelo,  do  you  think  me  handsome  ? ” 

“ Surely  I do,  since  I love  you.” 

“ But  if  you  did  not  love  me,  what  would  you  think  of  me  then  ? 

“ How  can  I tell?” 

“ But  when  you  look  at  othei  men,  do  you  know  whether  they  are 
handsome  or  ugly  ? ” 

“ Yes;  But  I think  you  handsomer  than  the  handsomest.” 

“ Is  it  because  I am  so,  or  because  you  love  me  ? ” 

“ Both  one  and  the  other,  I think.  Everybody  calls  you  handsome, 
and  you  know  that  you  are  so.  But  why  do  you  ask  ? ” 

“ I wish  to  know  if  you  would  love  me  were  I frightful? 

“ I should  not  be  aware  of  it,  perhaps.” 

“ Do  you  believe,  then,  that  it  is  possible  to  love  one  who  is  ugly  ? " 
“ Why  not,  since  you  love  me  ? ” 

“Are  you  ugly,  then,  Consuelo?  Tell  me  truly—are  you  indeed 
ugly  ? ” 

“ They  have  told  me  so — do  you  not  see  it  ? 

“No;  in  truth,  I see  no  such  thing.” 

“ In  that  case,  I am  handsome  enough,  and  am  well  satisfied.” 

“ Hold  there,  Consuelo.  When  you  look  at  me  so  sweetly,  so  lov- 
ingly, so  naturally,  I think  you  prettier  far  than  Corilla ; but  I want  to 
know  if  it  be  an  illusion  of  my  imagination,  or  reality.  I know  the 
expression  of  your  countenance ; I know  that  it  is  good,  and  that  it 
pleases  me.  When  I am  angry,  it  calms  me ; when  sorrowful,  cheer  s 
me ; when  I am  cast  down,  it  revives  me.  But  your  feature*  Consu- 
elo, I cannot  tell  if  they  are  ugly  or  not.” 

“ But  I ask  you  once  more,  what  does  it  matter  ? ” 

“ I must  know ; tell  me,  therefore,  if  it  be  possible  for  a handsome 
man  to  love  an  ugly  woman.” 

“You  loved  my  dear  mother,  who  was  no  better  than  a spectre,  and 
1 loved  her  so  dearly  I ” 

“ And  did  you  think  her  ugly  ? ” 

“No;  did  you?” 

“ I thought  nothing  about  it.  But  to  love  with  passion,  Consuefo 
— for, in  truth,  I love  you  passionately,  do  I not?  1 cannot  liva  witib* 
put  you — cannot  quit  you.  Is  not  that  love,  Consuelo  ? v 


COHSOBI.O 


r- 

* Oonld  it  be  anything  else  ? ” 
u Could  it  be  friendship  ? ” 

“ Yes,  it  might,  indeed,  be  friendship-—” 

Here  the  much  surprised  Consuelo  paused  and  looked  attentively 
at  Anzoleto,  while  he,  falling  into  a melancholy  reverie,  asked  himself 
for  the  first  time  whether  it  was  love  or  friendship  he  felt  for  Consue- 
lo, or  whether  the  moderation  and  propriety  of  his  demeanor  were 
the  result  of  respect  or  indifference.  For  the  first  time  he  looked  at 
the  young  girl  with  the  eyes  of  a youth;  analysed,  not  without  diffi- 
culty, her  face,  her  form,  her  eyes— all  the  details  in  fine  of  which  he 
had  had  hitherto  but  a confused  ideal  in  his  mind.  For  the  first  time 
Consuelo  was  embarrassed  by  the  demeanor  of  her  friend.  She  blush- 
ed, her  heart  beat  with  violence,  and  she  turned  aside  her  head,  una- 
ble to  support  Anzoleto’s  gaze.  At  last,  as  he  preserved  a silence 
which  she  d'.d  not  care  to  break,  a feeling  of  anguish  took  possession 
of  her  heart,  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

“Oh,  I see  it  plainly,”  she  said;  “you  have  come  to  tell  me  that 
you  will  no  longer  have  me  for  your  sweetheart.” 

“ No,  no;  I did  not  say  that— I did  not  say  that!”  exclaimed  Anzo- 
leto, terrified  by  the  tears  which  he  had  caused  her  to  shed  for  the 
first  time ; and,  restored  to  all  his  brotherly-feeling,  he  folded  Consu 
elo  in  his  aims.  But  as  she  turned  her  head  aside,  he  kissed,  in 

Elace  of  her  calm,  cool  cheek,  a glowing  shoulder,  ill-concealed  by  a 
andkerchief  of  black  lace. 

44  I know  not  well  what  ails  me,”  exclaimed  Consuelo,  tearing  her- 
self from  his  arms;  “I  think  I am  ill;  I feel  as  if  I were  going 
to  die.” 

“ You  must  not  die,”  said  Anzoleto,  following  and  supporting  her 
in  his  arms ; “ you  are  fair,  Consuelo — yes,  you  are  fair  1 ” 

In  truth,  she  was  then  very  fair.  Anzoleto  never  inquired  how, 
but  he  could  not  help  repeating  it,  for  his  heart  felt  it  warmly. 

“ But,”  said  Consuelo,  pale  and  agitated,  44  why  do  you  insist  so  on 
finding  me  pretty  to-day  ? ” 

44  Would  you  not  wish  to  be  so,  dear  Consuelo?  n 
u Yes,  for  you  I ” 
u And  for  others  too  ? ” 

44  It  concerns  me  not.” 

“ But  if  it  influenced  our  future  prospects  ? ” Here,  Anzoleto,  see- 
ing the  uneasiness  which  he  caused  his  betrothed,  told  her  candidly 
all  that  had  occurred  between  the  count  and  himself.  And  when  he 
came  to  repeat  the  expressions,  anything  but  flattering,  which  Zus- 
tiniani  had  employed  when  speaking  of  her,  the  good  Consuelo,  now 
perfectly  tranquil,  could  not  restrain  a violent  burst  of  laughter,  dry- 
ing at  the  same  time  her  tear-stained  eyes. 

u Well?”  said  Anzoleto,  surprised  at  this  total  absence  of  vanity, 
u do  you  take  it  so  coolly  ? Ah ! Consuelo,  I can  see  that  you  are  a 
little  coquette.  You  know  very  well  that  you  are  not  ugly.” 

44  Listen,”  said  she,  smiling : 44  since  you  are  so  serious  about  trifles, 
I find  I must  satisfy  you  a little.  I never  was  a coquette,  and  not 
being  handsome,  do  not  wish  to  seem  ridiculous.  But  as  to  being 
ugly,  I am  no  longer  so.” 

44  Indeed ! Who  has  told  you  ? ” 

a First  it  was  my  mother,  who  was  never  uneasy  about  my  uglinena* 
I heard  her  often  say  that  she  was  far  less  passable  than  I in  her  ha* 


CONSUELO 


4fl 


fancy,  and  yet  when  she  was  twenty  she  was  the  handsomest  girl  In 
Burgos.  You  know  that  when  the  people  looked  at  her  in  the  caftts 
where  she  s'ing,  they  said,  4 this  woman  must  have  been  once  beauti- 
fied.’ See,  ’ny  good  friend,  beauty  is  fleeting ; when  its  possessor  is 
sunk  in  poverty  it  lasts  for  a moment,  and  then  is  no  more.  I might 
become  lnndsome — who  knows? — if  I was  not  to  be  too  much  ex- 
hausted ; if  I got  sound  rest,  and  did  not  suffer  too  much  from  hun- 
ger.” 

44  Cons'  \elo,  we  will  never  part.  I shall  soon  be  rich;  you  will  then 
want  fo’  nothing,  and  can  be  pretty  at  your  ease.” 

“ Hej^  en  grant  it ; but  God’s  will  be  done  I ” 

“ But  all  this  is  nothing  to  the  purpose ; we  must  see  if  the  count 
will  find  you  handsome  enough  for  the  theatre.” 

44  That  hard-hearted  count ! Let  us  trust  that  he  will  not  be  too 
exacting.” 

44  First  and  foremost  then,  you  are  not  ugly  ? ” 

44  No ; I am  not  ugly.  I heard  the  glass-blower  over  the  way  there 
say  not  long  ago  to  his  wife — 4 Do  you  know*  that  little  Consuelo  is 
not  so  much  amiss.  She  has  a fine  figure,  and  when  she  laughs  she 
fills  one’s  heart  with  joy ; but  when  she  sings,  oh,  how  beautiful  she 
is!” 

44  And  what  did  the  glass-blower’s  wife  say  ? ” 

44  She  said — 4 What  is  it  to  you  ? Mind  your  business.  What  has 
a married  man  to  do  with  young  girls  ? ” 

44  Did  she  appear  angry  ? ” 

44  Oh,  very  angry.” 

44  It  is  a good  sign.  She  knew  that  her  husband  was  not  far 
wrong.  Well,  what  more  ? ” 

44  Why,  the  Countess  Moncenigo,  who  gives  out  work,  and  has  al- 
ways been  kind  to  me,  said  last  week  to  Dr.  Ancillo,  who  was  there 
when  I called— 4 Only  look,  doctor,  how  this  Zitella  has  grown,  how 
fair  she  is  and  how  well  made  I ” 

44 And  what  did  the  doctor  say?  ” 

“‘Very  true,  madam,’  said  he;  4 per  Baccot  I should  not  have 
known  her;  she  is  one  of  those  constitutions  that  become  handsome 
when  they  gain  a little  fat.  She  will  be  a fine  girl,  you  will  see 
that.’” 

44  And  what  more  ? ” 

44  Then  the  superior  of  Santa  Chiara,  for  whom  I work  embroidery 
ibr  the  altars,  said  to  one  of  the  sisters — 4 Does  not  Consuelo  resemble 
Santa  Cecilia?  Every  time  that  I pray  before  her  image  I cannot 
help  thinking  of  this  little  one,  and  then  I pray  for  her  that  she  may 
never  fall  into  sin,  and  that  she  may  never  sing  but  for  the  church,’  ” 
44  And  what  said  the  sister?” 

44  The  sister  replied — 4 It  is  true,  mother,  it  is  quite  true.’  As 
for  myself,  I hastened  to  the  church  and  looked  at  their  Cecilia,  which 
is  painted  by  a great  master,  and  is  very,  very  beautiful.” 

44  And  like  you  ? ” 

44  A little.” 

44  And  you  never  told  me  that?” 

“ I never  thought  of  it” 

44  Dear  Consuelo,  you  are  beautiful  then  ? ” 

44 1 do  net  think  so ; but  I am  not  so  ugly  as  they  said.  One  thins 
* certain— they  no  longer  call  me  ugly.  Perhaps  they  think  It  worm 
give  me  pain  to  hear  it” 


. i 


M goxiono. 

* Let  me  see,  Jttle  Consuelo ; look  at  me.  First,  yon  base  tkfl 
most  beautiful  eyes  in  the  world.” 

“ But  my  mouth  is  large  ,”  said  Consuelo,  laughing,  and  taking  up  a 
bioken  piece  of  looking  glass,  which  served  her  as  a pysche, 

“ It  is  not  very  small  indeed,  but  then  what  glorious  teeth!  ” sail 
Anzoleto;  “they  are  as  white  as  pearls,  and  when  you  smile  yot 
show  them  all.” 

“ In  that  case  you  must  say  something  that  will  make  me  laugh, 
when  we  are  with  the  count.” 

“ You  have  magnificent  hair,  Consuelo.” 

“ Oh  yes ; would  you  like  to  see  it  ? ” And  she  loosed  the  pins 
which  fastened  it,  and  her  dark  shining  locks  fell  in  flowing  masses  to 
the  floor. 

“ Your  chest  is  broad,  your  waist  small,  your  shoulders — ah,  they 
are  beautiful,  Consuelo ! ” 

“ My  feet,”  said  Consuelo,  turning  the  conversation,  “ are  not  se 
bad ; ” and  she  held  up  a little  Andalusian  foot,  a beauty  almost  urn 
known  in  Venice. 

“ Your  hand  is  beautiful,  also,”  said  Anzoleto.  kissing  for  the  first 
time  the  hand  which  he  had  hitherto  clasped  only  in  companionship. 
“ Let  me  see  your  arms.” 

tt  But  you  have  seen  them  a hundred  times,”  said  she,  removing 
her  long  gloves. 

“Xo;  I have  never  seen  them,”  said  Anzoleto,  whose  admiration 
every  moment  increased,  and  he  again  relapsed  into  silence,  gazing 
with  beaming  eyes  on  the  young  girl,  in  whom  each  moment  he  db? 
covered  new  beauties. 

All  at  once  Consuelo,  embarrassed  by  this  display,  endeavored  to 
regain  her  former  quiet  enjoyment,  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  apartment,  gesticulating  and  singing  from  time  to  time  in  a some- 
what exaggerated  fashion,  several  passages  from  the  lyric  drama,  just 
as  if  she  were  a performer  on  the  stage. 

“ Magnificent  1 ” exclaimed  Anzoleto,  ravished  with  surprise  at  find- 
ing her  capable  of  a display  which  she  had  not  hitherto  manifested. 

“ It  is  anything  but  magnificent,”  said  Consuelo,  reseating  herself; 
“ and  I hope  you  only  spoke  in  jest.” 

“ It  would  be  magnificent  on  the  boards,  at  any  rate.  I assure  you 
there  would  not  be  a gesture  too  much.  Corilia  would  burst  with 
jealousy,  for  it  is  just  the  way  she  gets  on  when  they  applaud  her  to 
the  skies.” 

“ My  dear  Anzoleto,  I do  not  wish  that  Corilia  should  grow  jealous 
About  any  such  nonsense ; if  the  public  were  to  applaud  me  merely 
because  I knew  how  to  ape  her,  I would  never  appear  before  them.” 
M You  would  do  better,  then  ? ” 

“ I hope  so,  or  I should  never  attempt  it.” 

“ Very  well ; how  would  you  manage  ? ” 

“ I cannot  say.” 

“ Try.” 

“No;  for  all  this  is  but  a dream;  and  until  they  have  decided 
whether  I am  ugly  or  not,  we  had  better  not  plan  any  more  fine  pro- 
jects. Perhaps  we  are  a little  mad  just  now,  and  after  all,  as  the  count 
has  said,  Consuelo  may  be  frightful.” 

This  last  supposition  eaused  Anzoleto  to  take  Ids  leara. 


sen xi0 


11 


CHAPTER  IX 

At  this  period  of  his  life,  though  almost  unknown  to  biographers 
Porpora,  one  of  the  best  Italian  composers  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
the  pupil  of  Scarlatti,  the  master  of  Hasse,  Farrinelli,Carfarielli,  Min- 

Eitti,  Salimbini,  Hubert  (surnamed  the  Porporino),  of  Gabrielli.  of 
onteni — in  a word,  the  founder  of  the  most  celebrated  scnoo*  ol  Ms 
time — languished  in  obscurity  at  Venice,  in  a condition  bordering  on 
poverty  and  despair.  Nevertheless,  he  had  formerly  been  director  of 
the  conservatory  of  the  Ospedaletto  in  the  same  city,  and  this  period 
of  his  life,  had  been  even  brilliant.  He  had  there  written  and  pro- 
duced his  best  operas,  his  most  beautiful  cantatas,  and  his  finest 
church  music.  Invited  to  Vienna  in  1728,  he  had  there,  after  some 
effort,  gained  the  favor  of  the  Emperor  Charles  VI.  Patronized  at 
the  court  of  Saxony,  where  he  gave  lessons  to  the  electoral  princess, 
Porpora  from  that  repaired  to  London,  where  he  rivalled  for  nine  or 
ten  years  the  glory  of  Handel,  the  master  of  masters,  whose  star  at 
that  period  had  begun  to  pale.  The  genius  of  the  latter  however 
obtained  the  supremacy,  and  Porpora,  wounded  in  pride  and  purse, 
had  returned  to  Venice  to  resume  the  direction  of  another  conserva- 
tory. He  still  composed  operas,  but  found  it  difficult  to  get  them 
represented.  His  last,  although  written  in  Venice,  was  brought  out 
in  London,  where  it  had  no  success.  His  genius  had  incurred  these 
serious  assaults,  against  which  fortune  and  glory  might  perhaps  have 
sustained  him ; but  the  neglect  and  ingratitude  of  Hasse,  Farinelli, 
and  Cafarieili,  broke  his  heart,  soured  his  character,  and  poisoned  his 
old  age.  He  is  known  to  have  died  miserable  and  neglected  in  his 
eightieth  year  at  Naples. 

At  the  period  when  Count  Zustiniani,  foreseeing  and  almost  desir- 
ing the  defection  of  Corilla,  sought  to  replace  her,  Porpora  was  sub- 
ject to  violent  fits  of  ill-humor,  not  always  without  foundation ; for 
if  they  preferred  and  sang  at  Venice  the  music  of  Jomelli,  of  Lctti, 
of  Carissimi,  of  Gaspirini,  and  other  excellent  masters,  they  also 
adopted  without  discrimination  the  productions  of  Cocchi,  of  Buini, 
of  Salvator  Apollini,  and  other  local  composers,  whose  common  and 
easy  style  served  to  flatter  mediocrity.  The  operas  of  Hasse  could 
not  please  a master  justly  dissatisfied.  The  worthy  but  unfortunate 
Porpora,  therefore,  closing  his  heart  and  ears  alike  to  modern  produc- 
tions, sought  to  crush  them  under  the  glory  and  authority  of  the  an- 
ciprts.  He  judged  too  severely  of  the  graceful  compositions  of  Ga- 
I1.4  , i,  and  even  the  original  fantasies  of  Chiozetto,  a favorite  composei 
at  Venice.  In  short,  he  would  only  speak  of  Martini,  Durante,  Monte 
Verde,  and  Palestrina;  I do  not  know  if  even  Marcello  and  lice 
found  favor  in  his  eyes.  It  was  therefore  with  reserve  and  dissatisfac- 
tion that  he  received  the  first  overtures  of  Zustiniani  concerning  his 
poor  pupil,  whose  good  fortune  and  glory  he  nevertheless  desired  to 
promote ; for  he  had  too  much  experience  not  to  be  aware  of  her 
abilities  and  her  deserts.  But  he  shook  his  head  at  the  idea  of  the 
profanation  of  a genius  so  pure,  and  so  liberally  nurtured  on  the  sa- 
cred manna  of  the  old  masters,  an  i replied,  “ Take  her  if  it  must  be 
*o—  this  spotless  soul,  this  stainless  intellect— cast  her  to  the  dogs, 
hand  her  over  to  the  brutes,  for  such  seems  the  deathly  of  genius  «l 
the  period  in  which  we  Mvg.” 


Or  iLL  Liiiu 


62 


C0N8UK10 


This  dissatisfaction,  at  once  grave  and  ludicrous,  gave  the  eotmt  a 
lofty  klea  of  the  merit  of  the  pupil  from  the  high  value  which  the 
severe  master  attached  to  it 

u So,  so,  my  dear  maestro,”  he  exclaimed,  “ is  that  indeed  your 
opinion?  is  this  Consuelo  a creature  so  extraordinary,  so  divine?  ” 

“ Fou  shall  hear  her,”  said  Porpora,  with  an  air  of  resignation, 
while  he  murmured,  “ it  is  her  destiny.” 

The  count  succeeded  in  raising  the  spirits  of  the  master  from  their 
state  of  depression,  and  led  him  to  expect  a serious  reform  in  the 
choice  of  operas.  He  promised  to  exclude  inferior  productions  so 
soon  as  he  should  succeed  in  getting  rid  of  Corilla,  to  whose  caprices 
he  attributed  their  admission  and  success.  He  even  dexterously  gave 
him  to  understand  that  he  would  be  very  reserved  as  to  Hasse;  and 
declared  that  if  Porpora  would  write  an  opera  for  Consuelo,  the  pupil 
would  confer  a double  glory  on  her  master  in  expressing  his  thoughts 
in  a style  which  suited  them,  as  well  as  realize  a lyric  triumph  for 
San  Samuel  and  for  the  count. 

Porpora,  fairly  vanquished,  began  to  thaw,  and  now  secretly  longed 
for  the  coming  out  of  his  pupil,  as  much  as  he  had  hitherto  dreaded 
it  from  the  fear  that  she  should  be  the  means  of  adding  fresh  lustre 
to  the  productions  of  his  rivals.  But  as  the  count  expressed  some 
anxiety  touching  Consuelo’s  appearance,  he  refused  to  permit  him  to 
hear  her  in  private,  and  without  preparation. 

“ I do  not  wish  you  to  suppose,”  said  he,  in  reply  to  the  count’s 
questions  and  entreaties,  “that  she  is  a beauty.  A poorly- dressed 
and  timid  girl,  in  presence  of  a nobleman  and  a judge — a child  of  the 
people,  who  has  never  been  the  object  of  the  slightest  attention — can- 
not dispense  with  some  preparatory  toilet.  And,  besides,  Consuelo 
.s  one  whose  expression  genius  ennobles  in  an  extraordinary  degree. 
She  must  be  seen  and  heard  at  the  same  time.  Leave  it  all  to  me ; 
If  you  are  not  satisfied  you  may  leave  her  alone,  and  I shall  find  out 
means  of  making  her  a good  nun,  who  will  be  the  glory  of  the  school, 
and  the  instructress  of  future  pupils.”  Such,  in  fact,  was  the  destinj 
which  Porpora  had  planned  for  Consuelo. 

When  he  saw  his  pupil  again,  he  told  her  that  she  was  to  be  heard 
and  an  opinion  given  of  her  by  the  count ; but  as  she  was  uneasy  on 
the  score  of  her  looks,  he  gave  her  to  understand  that  she  would  not 
be  seen — in  short,  that  she  would  sing  behind  the  organ-screen,  the 
count  being  merely  present  at  the  service  in  the  church.  He  advised 
her,  however,  to  dress  with  some  attention  to  appearance,  as  she 
v ould  have  to  be  presented,  and  though  the  noble  master  was  poor, 
ae  gave  her  money  for  the  purpose.  Consuelo,  frightened  and  agitat- 
ed, bulled  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  with  attention  to  her  person, 
h^tened  to  see  after  her  toilet  and  her  voice.  She  tried  the  last,  and 
found  it  to  fresh,  so  brilliant,  and  so  full,  that  Anzoleto,  to  whom  she 
rang,  more  than  once  repeated  with  ecstasy,  “ Alas ! why  should  they 
require  more  than  that  she  knows  how  to  sing?  ” 


CHAPTER  X 

Oar  the  eve  of  the  important  day,  Anzoleto  found  Con»uelo’»  door 
ctoeed  and  locked;  and  after  having  waited  for  a quarter  of  an  hour 


€0 V8UKL0 


4* 

m the  stain,  he  finally  obtained  permission  to  see  his  friend  in  her 
festal  attire,  the  effect  of  which  she  wished  to  try  before  him.  She 
had  on  a handsome  flowered  muslin,  dress,  & lace  handkerchief,  and 
powder.  She  was  so  much  altered,  that  Anzoleto  was  for  3ome  mo- 
ments uncertain  whether  she  had  gained  or  lost  by  the  change.  The 
hesitation  which  Consuelo  read  in  his  eyes  was  as  the  stroke  of  a 
dagger  to  her  heart. 

“ Ah  I ” said  she,  a I see  very  well  that  I do  not  please  you.  How 
can  I hope  to  please  a stranger,  when  he  who  loves  me  sees  nothing 
agreeable  in  my  appearance  ? ” 

“ Wait  a little,”  replied  Anzoleto.  “ I like  your  elegant  figure  in 
♦hose  long  stays,  and  the  distinguished  air  which  this  lace  gives  you. 
The  large  folds  of  your  petticoat  suit  you  to  admiration,  but  I regret 
your  long  black  hair.  However,  it  is  the  fashion,  and  to-morrow  yon 

must  be  a lady.” 

“And  why  must  I be  a lady?  For  my  part  I hate  this  powder, 
which  fades  one,  and  makes  even  the  most  beautiful  grow  old  before 
her  time.  I have  an  artificial  air  under  all  these  furbelows ; in  short. 
I am  not  satisfied  with  myself,  and  I see  you  are  not  so  either.  Oh  I 
by-the-bye,  I was  at  rehearsal  this  morning,  and  saw  Clorinda,  who 
also  was  trying  on  a new  dress.  She  was  so  gay,  so  fearless,  so  hand- 
some, (oh  I she  must  be  happy! — you  need  not  look  twice  at  her  to  be 
sure  of  her  beauty),  that  I feel  afraid  of  appearing  beside  her  before 
the  count.”  - 

“You  maybe  easy;  the  count  has  seen  her,  and  has  heard  her 
too.” 

“ And  did  she  sing  badly  ? ” 

“ As  she  always  does.” 

“Ah I my  friend,  those  rivalries  spoil  the  disposition.  A little 
while  ago,  if  Clorinda,  who  is  a good  girl,  notwithstanding  her  vanity, 
had  been  spoken  of  unfavorably  by  a judge,  I should  have  been  sorry 
for  her  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart ; I should  have  shared  her  grief 
and  humiliation;  and  now  I find  myself  rejoicing  at  it!  To  strive,  to 
envy,  to  seek  to  ipjure  each  other,  and  all  that  for  a man  whom  we 
love  not,  nay!  but  whom  we  know  not!  I feel  very  low-spirited,  my 
dear  love,  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I were  as  much  frightened  by  the 
idea  of  succeeding  as  by  that  of  failing.  It  seems  as  if  our  happiness 
vas  coming  to  a close,  and  that  to-morrow,  after  the  trial,  whatever 
may  be  the  result,  I shall  return  to  this  poor  apartment  a different 
person  from  what  I have  hitherto  lived  in  it.” 

Two  large  tears  rolled  down  over  Consuelo’s  cheeks. 

“ Well,  are  you  going  to  cry  now  ?”  said  Anzoleto.  “ What  can  you 
be  thinking  of?  You  will  dim  your  eyes,  and  swell  your  eyelid*. 
Ycur  eyes,  Consuelo!  do  not  spoil  your  eyes,  which  are  the  most 
beautiful  feature  in  your  face.” 

“ Or  rather  the  least  ugly,”  said  she,  wiping  away  her  tears.  “ Come, 
when  we  give  ourselves  up  to  the  world  we  have  not  even  the  right 
to  weep.” 

Her  friend  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  she  was  exceedingly  dejected 
all  the  rest  of  the  day ; and  in  the  evening,  when  she  was  again  alone, 
she  brushed  out  the  powder,  uncurled  her  ebon  hair,  and  sleeked  it, 
tried  on  a little  black  silk  dress,  well  preserved,  and  still  nearly  new 
her  usual  Sunday  garb,  and  regained  a portion  of  her  confidence  on 
once  more  recognising  herself  in  her  mirror.  Then  she  prayed  fer* 
vently,  and  thought  of  her  mother,  until,  melted  to  tears,  she  cried 


54 


«0X iUBL© 


herself  to  sleep*  When  Anzoleto  came  to  gee  her  the  following 
to  take  her  to  church,  she  was  sitting  at  her  spinnet,  piactlsing  her 
first  air,  and  her  hair  dressed  as  on  every  Sunday. — “ What ! ” he  ex- 
claimed, “not  dressed  yet?  unpowdered  still?  It  is  almost  the  hour; 
what  can  you  be  about,  Consuelo  ? ” 

“ My  dear,  she  replied,  steadily,  “ I wear  my  hair  as  it  is.  I am 
ready  as  I am.  I am  tranquil,  and  shall  go  thus.  This  fine  3lack 
dress  does  not  suit  me.  M black  hair  pleases  you  better  than  powder. 
These  corsets  do  but  checx  my  breath.  Do  not  endeavor  to  change 
my  resolution ; I have  made  up  my  mind.  I have  prayed  to  God  to 
direct  me,  and  my  mother  to  watch  over  my  conduct.  God  has  di- 
rected me  to  be  quiet  and  simple.  My  mother  has  visited  me  in  my 
dreams,  and  she  said  what  she  always  used  to  say : ‘ Try  to  sing  well, 
Providence  will  do  the  rest.’  I saw  her  take  my  fine  dress,  my  laces, 
and  my  ribbons,  and  put  them  away  in  the  cupboard ; and  then  she 
laid  my  black  frock  and  white  muslin  mantilla  on  the  chair  by  the  bed- 
side ; when  I awoke,  I locked  up  my  full  dress  as  I saw  her  do  in  the 
dream,  and  put  on  my  black  frock  and  mantilla,  as  you  see  me.  I have 
more  courage,  pow  that  I have  given  up  the  idea  of  pleasing  by  graces 
which  I do  not  comprehend.  Listen  to  my  voice;  after  all,  every- 
thing lies  in  that,” — and  she  sounded  a note. 

“Good  Lord!  we  are  ruined!”  cried  Anzoleto.  “Your  voice  is 
voile  * and  your  eyes  are  bloodshot.  You  liave  been  crying  all  night, 
Consuelo.  This  is  a pretty  business ! I say  we  are  ruined ! It  is  ab- 
surd to  wear  mourning  on  a holiday ; besides,  it  is  unlucky,  and  it  does 
not  become  you.  Come,  be  quick — put  on  your  fine  full  dress,  while 
I go  and  get  you  some  rouge.  You  are  pale  as  a ghost!  ” 

The  poor  girl’s  mind  was  again  agitated,  and  her  tears  flowed  afresh. 
Anzoleto  was  vexed  more  and  more,  and  while  they  were  still  debat- 
ing, the  clock  struck  the  fatal  hour.  Consuelo,  pale  and  trembling, 
looked  at  herself  for  the  last  time  in  the  little  broken  mirror.  Then* 
turning  round,  sprang  impetuously  into  Anzoleto’s  arms.  “ Oh,  my 
beloved,”  she  cried,  “ do  not  swear  at  me.  Clasp  me  more  closely  in 
your  arms,  to  give  some  color  to  my  pale  cheeks.  Be  your  kiss  to  my 
cheeks  as  was  the  sacred  fire  which  kindled  Isaiah’s  lips,  and  may  God 
pardon  us  for  doubting  His  assistance ! ” 

Then  she  cast  her  mantilla  eagerly  over  her  head,  snatched  up  her 
music  books,  and  hurrying  away  her  dispirited  lover,  made  haste  to 
the  church  of  the  Mendicanti,  whither  the  crowd  were  already  flock- 
ing, to  listen  to  Porpora’s  admirable  music.  Anzoleto,  more  dead 
than  alive,  went  to  seek  the  count,  who  had  given  him  the  meeting  in 
the  organ-loft,  while  Consuelo  went  up  to  the  organ-loft,  in  which  the 
choirs  were  already  in  air,  with  the  professor  at  his  desk.  Consuelo 
was  not  aware  that  the  count’s  tribune  was  so  contrived  that  he 
could  look  into  the  organ-loft  more  easily  than  into  the  church— that 
he  had  already  fixed  his  eyes  on  her,  and  was  watching  her  every  ges- 
ture. 

Her  features,  however,  he  could  no t yet  distinguish,  for  on  entering 

• Toils.  Wo  have  thought  It  advisable  to  ^ave  this  word  untranslated,  although 
nothing  in  general  is  more  abominable  than  to  see  books  professing  to  be  written 
la  the  English  language,  interlarded  with  foreign  words  or  phrases.  This  word 
voile  is,  however,  a musical  technicality,  and  can  be  expressed  by  no  English  word. 
It  does  not  mean  huixy  exactly,  nor  hoarse,  nor  thick,  hut  something  interme* 
iiate.  The  literal  meaning  of  the  worl  being  veiled  or  shrouded,  wfcioh,  as  ftp* 

tted  to  a voice  is  English,  would  he  s aaply  nonsense. 


CON81XLO 


56 


o kne.t  dtwn,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  prayed  fervently 
d devoutly.  “ Oh,  my  God,”  she  cried,  with  the  voice  of  the  heart 
thou  knowest  that  I seek  not  advancement  for  the  humiliation  of 
y rivals.  Thou  knowest  that  I have  no  thought  to  surrender  myself 
the  world  and  worldly  acts,  abandoning  thy  love,  and  straying  into 
the  paths  of  vice.  Thou  knowest  that  pride  dwells  not  in  me,  and 
that  I implore  thee  to  support  me,  and  to  swell  my  voice,  and  to  ex- 
pand my  thoughts  as  I sing  thy  praises,  only  that  I may  dwell  with 
him  whom  my  mother  permitted  me  to  love.” 

When  the  first  sounds  of  the  orchestra  called  Consuelo  to  her  place, 
she  rose  slowly,  her  mantilla  fell  from  her  shoulders,  and  her  face  was 
at  length  visible  to  the  impatient  and  restless  spectators  in  the  neigh- 
boring tribune.  But  what  marvellous  change  is  here  in  this  young 
girl,  just  now  so  pale,  so  cast  down,  so  overwhelmed  by  fatigue  and 
fear  I The  ether  of  heaven  seemed  to  bedew  her  lofty  forehead, 
while  a gentle  languor  was  diffused  over  the  noble  and  graceful  out- 
lines of  her  figure.  Her  tranquil  countenance  expressed  none  of 
those  petty  passions,  which  seek,  and  as  it  were,  exact  applause. 
There  was  something  about  her  solemn,  mysterious,  and  elevated — at 
once  lovely  and  affecting. 

“ Courage,  my  daughter,”  said  the  professor,  in  a low  voice.  “ You 
are  about  to  sing  the  music  of  a great  master,  and  he  is  here  to  listen 
to  you.” 

“Who? — Marcello  ?”  said  Consuelo,  seeing  the  professor  lay  the 
Hymns  of  Marcello  open  on  the  desk. 

“ Yes — Marcello,”  replied  he.  “ Sing  as  usual — nothing  more  and 
nothing  less — and  all  will  be  well.” 

Marcello,  then  in  the  last  year  of  his  life,  had  in  fact  come  once 
again  to  revisit  Venice,  his  birth-place,  where  he  had  gained  renown 
as  composer,  as  writer,  and  as  magistrate.  He  had  been  full  of  cour- 
tesy towards  Porpora,  who  had  requested  him  to  be  present  in  his 
school,  intending  to  surprise  him  with  the  performance  of  Consuelo, 
who  knew  his  magnificent  “ I deli  immensi  narrano  ” by  heart. 
Nothing  could  be  better  adapted  to  the  religious  glow  that  now  an- 
imated the  heart  of  this  noble  girl.  So  soon  as  the  first  words  of  this 
lofty  and  brilliant  production  shone  before  her  eyes,  she  felt  as  if 
wafted  into  another  sphere.  Forgetting  Count  Zustiniani — forgetting 
the  spiteful  glances  of  her  rivals — forgetting  even  Anzoleto — she 
thought  only  of  God  and  of  Marcello,  who  seemed  to  interpret  those 
wondrous  regions  whose  glory  she  was  about  to  celebrate.  What  sub- 
ject so  beautiful ! — what  conception  so  elevated  I — 

I ciell  immensi  narrano 
Del  grand!  Iddio  la  gloria 

II  flrmamento  lucido 
All  universe*  annunzla 
Quanto  sieno  mirabili 
Della  Bua  destra  le  opere. 


A divine  glow  overspread  her  features,  and  the  sacred  fire  of  genius 
darted  from  her  large  black  eyes,  as  the  vaulted  roof  rang  with  that 
unequalled  voice,  and  with  those  lofty  accents  which  could  only  pro- 
ceed from  an  elevated  intell  set,  joined  to  a good  heart.  After  he  had 
listened  for  a few  instants,  a t }rrent-of  delicious  tears  streamed  from 
Marcello’s  eyes.  The  count,  unable  to  restrain  his  emotion,  exclaim- 
ed—" By  the*  Holy  Rood,  this  woman  is  beautiftil  I She  is  Santa  Ce- 
cilia, Santa  Teresa,  Santa  Co t suelo ! She  is  poetry,  she  is  music,  she 


50 


tiovstrxLo 


Is  fhlth  personified  ” As  for  Anzoleto,  who  had  risen,  and  w 

trembling  knees  bare.y  sufficed  to  sustain  him  with  the  aid  of  1 
hands,  which  clung  convulsively  to  the  grating  of  the  tribune, 
fell  back  upon  his  seat,  ready  to  swoon,  intoxicated  with  pride  a\ 
joy. 

It  required  all  the  respect  due  to  the  locality,  to  prevent  the  numer- 
ous dilettanti  in  the  crowd  from  bursting  into  applause,  as  if  they  had 
been  in  the  theatre.  The  count  would  not  wait  till  the  close  of  the 
service  to  express  his  enthusiasm  to  Porpora  and  Consuelo.  She  was 
obliged  to  repair  to  the  tribune  of  the  count  to  receive  the  thanks 
and  gratitude  of  Marcello.  She  found  him  so  much  agitated  as  to  be 
hardly  able  to  speak. 

“ My  daughter,”  said  he,  with  a broken  voice,  “ receive  the  blessing 
of  a dying  man.  You  have  caused  me  to  forget  for  an  instant  the 
mortal  suffering  of  many  years.  A miracle  seems  exerted  in  my  be- 
half, and  the  unrelenting,  frightful  malady  appears  to  have  fled  forever 
at  the  sound  of  your  voice.  If  the  angels  above  sing  like  you,  I shall 
long  to  quit  the  world  in  order  to  enjoy  that  happiness  which  you 
have  made  known  to  me.  Blessings  then  be  on  you,  oh  my  child,  and 
may  your  earthly  happiness  correspond  with  your  deserts  1 I have 
heard  Faustina,  Romanina,  Cuzzoni,  and  the  rest;  but  they  are  not 
to  be  named  along  with  you.  It  is  reserved  for  you  to  let  the  world 
hear  what  it  has  never  yet  heard,  and  to  make  it  feel  what  no  man 
has  ever  yet  felt.” 

Gonsuelo,  overwhelmed  by  this  magnificent  eulogium,  bowed  her 
head,  and  almost  bending  to  the  ground,  kissed,  without  being  able  to 
utter  a word,  the  livid  fingers  of  the  dying  man,  then  rising,  she  cast 
a look  upon  Anzoleto  which  seemed  to  say — “ Ungrateful  one,  you 
knew  not  what  I was ! ” 


CHAPTER  XL 

Dubing  the  remainder  of  the  service,  Consuelo  displayed  energy 
and  resources  which  completely  removed  any  hesitation  Count  Zustin- 
iani  might  have  felt  respecting  her.  She  led,  she  animated,  she  sus- 
tained the  choir,  displaying  at  each  instant  prodigious  powers,  and  the 
varied  qualities  of  her  voice  rather  than  the  strength  of  her  lungs. 
For  those  who  know  how  to  sing  do  not  become  tired,  and  Consuelo 
sang  with  as  little  effort  and  labor  as  others  might  have  in  merely 
breathing.  She  was  heard  above  all  the  rest,  not  because  she  scream- 
ed like  those  performers,  without  soul  and  without  breath,  but  be- 
cause of  the  unimaginable  sweetness  and  purity  of  her  tones.  Be- 
sides, she  felt  that  she  was  understood  in  every  minute  particular. 
She  alone,  amidst  the  vulgar  crcwd,  the  shrill  voices  and  imperfect 
trills  of  those  around  her,  was  a musician  and  a master.  She  filled 
therefore  instinctively  and  withoct  ostentation  her  powerful  part,  and 
as  long  as  the  service  lasted  she  took  the  prominent  place  which  she 
felt  was  necessary.  After  all  was  ov*r,  the  choristers  imputed  it  to 
her  as  a grievance  and  a crime ; and  tnose  very  persons  who,  failing 
and  sinking,  had  as  it  w^re  implored  her  assistance  with  their  looks, 
daimed  for  themselves  all  the  eulogiums  which  were  given  to  the 


0OHIU1IO 


67 


school  of  Porpora  at  large.  At  these  eulogiums  the  matter  smiled 
and  said  nothing:  but  he  looked  at  Consuelo,  and  Anzoleto  under- 
stood very  well  what  his  look  meant. 

After  the  business  of  the  day  was  over,  the  choristers  partook  of  a 
select  collation  which  the  count  had  caused  to  be  served  up  in  one  of 
the  parlors  of  the  convent.  Two  immense  tables  in  the  form  of  a 
half-moon  were  separated  by  the  grating,  in  the  centre  of  which,  over 
an  immense  gat6,  there  was  an  opening  to  pass  the  dishes,  which  the 
count  himself  gracefully  handed  round  to  the  principal  nuns  and  pu- 
pils. The  latter,  dressed  as  Beguines,  came  by  dozens  alternately  to 
occupy  the  vacant  places  in  the  interior  of  the  cloisters.  The  supe- 
rior, seated  next  the  grating,  was  thus  at  the  right  hand  of  the  count  a« 
regarded  the  outer  hall ; the  seat  on  his  left  was  vacant.  Marcello, 
Porpora,  the  curate  of  the  parish,  and  the  officiating  priests,  some 
dilettanti  patricians,  and  the  lay  administrators  of  the  school,  together 
with  the  handsome  Anzoleto  with  his  black  coat  and  sword,  had  a 
place  at  the  secular  table.  The  young  singers,  though  usually  ani- 
mated enough  on  such  occasions,  what  with  the  pleasure  of  feasting, 
of  conversing  with  gentlemen,  the  desire  of  pleasing,  or  at  least  of 
being  observed — were  on  that  day  thoughtful  and  constrained.  The 
project  of  the  count  had  somehow  expired — for  what  secret  can  be 
kept  in  a convent  without  oozing  out  ? — and  each  of  these  young  girls 
secretly  flattered  herself  that  she  should  be  presented  by  Porpora  in 
order  to  succeed  Corilla.  The  professor  was  even  malicious  enough 
to  encourage  their  illusions,  whether  to  induce  them  to  perform  bet- 
ter before  Marcello,  or  to  revenge  himself  for  the  previous  annoyance 
during  their  course  of  instruction.  Certain  it  is  that  Clorinda,  who 
was  one  of  the  out-pupils  of  the  conservatory,  was  there  in  full  attire, 
waiting  to-take  her  place  beside  the  count;  but  when  she  saw  the  de- 
spised Consuelo,  with  her  black  dress  and  tranquil  mein,  the  ugly 
creature  whom  she  affected  to  despise,  henceforth  esteemed  a musi- 
cian and  the  only  beauty  of  the  school,  she  became  absolutely  fright- 
ful with  anger — uglier  that  Consuelo  had  ever  been — ugly  as  Y enus 
herself  would  become  were  she  actuated  by  a base  and  degrading  mo- 
tive. Anzoleto,  exulting  in  his  victory,  looked  attentively  at  her,  seated 
himself  beside  her,  and  loaded  her  with  absurd  compliments  which  she 
had  not  sense  to  understand,  but  which  nevertheless  consoled  her. 
She  imagined  she  would  revenge  herself  on  her  rival  by  attracting  her 
betrothed,  and  spared  no  pains  to  intoxicate  him  with  her  charms. 
She  was  no  match  however  for  her  companion,  and  Anzoleto  was 
acute  enough  to  load  her  with  ridicule. 

In  the  mean  time  Count  Zustiniani,  upon  conversing  with  Con- 
suelo,  was  amazed  to  find  her  endowed  with  as  much  tact,  good 
sense,  and  conversational  powers,  as  he  had  found  in  her  talent  and 
ability  at  church.  Absolutely  devoid  of  coquetry,  there  was  a cheer- 
ful frankness  and  confiding  good  nature  in  her  manner  which  in- 
spired a sympathy  equally  rapid  and  irresistible.  When  the  repast 
was  at  an  end,  he  invited  her  to  take  the  air  in  his  gondola  with  his 
friends.  Marcello  was  excused  on  account  of  his  failing  health  ; but 
Porpora,  Barberigo,  and  other  patricians  were  present,  and  Anzoleto 
was  also  of  the  party.  Consuelo,  who  felt  not  quite  at  home  among 
so  many  men,  entreated  the  count  to  invite  Clorinda  ; and  Zdstiniani, 
who  did  not  suspect  the  badinage  of  Anzoleto  with  this  poor  girl,  was 
not  sorry  to  see  him  attracted  by  her.  The  noble  count,  thanks  to 
the  aprlghtiiness  of  his  character,  his  fine  figure,  his  wealth,  his  then* 


CONSUELO 


58 

tre,  and  also  the  easy  manners  of  the  country  and  of  the  time,  had  a 
strong  spice  of  conceit  in  his  character.  Fired  by  the  wine  of  Greece 
and  by  his  musical  enthusiasm,  and  impatient  to  revenge  himself  on 
the  perfidious  Corilla,  he  thought  there  was  nothing  more  natural 
than  to  pay  his  court  to  Consuelo.  Seating  himself  therefore  beside 
her  in  the  gondola,  and  so  arranging  that  the  young  people  should 
occupy  the  other  extremity,  he  began  to  direct  glances  of  a very  sig- 
nificant character  on  his  new  flame.  The  simple  and  upright  Gon- 
euelo  took  no  notice.  Her  candor  and  good  principle  revolted  at 
the  idea  that  the  protector  of  her  friend  could  harbor  ill  designs  ; 
indeed,  her  habitual  modesty,  in  no  way  affected  by  the  splendid  tri- 
umph of  the  day,  would  have  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  believe  it 
She  persisted  therefore  in  respecting  the  illustrious  signor,  who 
adopted  her  along  with  Anzoleto,  and  continued  to  amuse  herself 
with  the  party  of  pleasure,  in  which  she  could  see  no  harm. 

So  much  calmness  and  good  faith  surprised  the  count,  who  re- 
mained uncertain  whether  it  was  the  joyous  submission  of  an  unre- 
sisting heart  or  the  unsuspiciousness  of  perfect  innocence.  At  eight- 
een years  of  age,  however,  now,  as  well  as  a hundred  years  ago,  espec- 
ially with  a friend  such  as  Anzoleto,  a girl  could  not  be  perfectly  ig- 
norant. Every  probability  was  in  favor  of  the  count  ; nevertheless, 
each  time  that  he  seized  the  hand  of  his  protegee,  or  attempted  to 
steal  his  arm  round  her  waist,  he  experienced  an  indefinable  fear,  and 
a feeling  of  uncertainty — almost  of  respect,  which  restrained  him,  he 
could  not  tell  how. 

Barberigo  thought  Consuelo  sufficiently  attractive,  and  he  would  In 
his  turn  gladly  have  maintained  his  pretensions,  had  he  not  been  re- 
strained by  motives  of  delicacy  towards  the  count.  “ Honor  to  all,” 
said  he  to  himself,  as  he  saw  the  eyes  of  Zustiniani  swimming  in  an 
atmosphere  of  voluptuous  delight;  “my  turn  will  come  next.” 
Meanwhile  the  young  Barberigo,  not  much  accustomed  to  look  at  the 
stars  when  on  excursions  with  ladies,  inquired  by  what  right  Anzoleto 
should  appropriate  the  fair  Clorinda  ; and  approaching,  he  endeav- 
ored to  make  him  understand  that  his  place  was  rather  to  take  the 
oar  than  to  flirt  with  ladies.  Anzoleto,  notwithstanding  his  acute- 
ness, was  not  well-bred  enough  to  understand  at  first  what  he  meant ; 
besides,  his  pride  was  fully  on  a par  with  the  insolence  of  the  pa- 
tricians. He  detested  them  cordially,  and  his  apparent  deference 
towards  them  merely  served  to  disguise  his  inward  contempt.  Bar- 
berigo, seeing  that  he  took  a pleasure  in  opposing  them,  bethought 
himself  of  a cruel  revenge.  “ By  Jove!”  said  he  to  Clorinda,  “ your 
friend  Consuelo  is  getting  on  at  a furious  rate ; I wonder  where  she 
will  stop.  Not  contented  with  setting  the  town  crazy  with  her  voice, 
•he  is  turning  the  head  of  the  poor  count.  He  will  fall  madly  in  love, 
and  Corilla’s  affair  will  be  soon  settled.” 

“Oh, there  is  nothing  to  fear,”  exclaimed  Clorinda,  mockingly; 
* Consuelo’s  affections  are  the  property  of  Anzoleto  here,  to  whom  in 
ikct  she  is  e ;ed.  They  have  been  burning  for  each  other,  I don’t 
know  how  1 y years.” 

“ I do  not  know  how  many  years  may  be  swept  away  in  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye,”  said  Barberigo,  “ especially  when  the  eyes  of  Zustin- 
iani takedt  upon  them  to  cast  the  mortal  dart  Do  not  you  think  so, 
beautiful  Clorinda?  ” 

Anzoleto  could  bear  it  no  longer.  A thousand  serpents  already 
ftmnd  admission  into  his  bosom.  Hitherto  such  a suspicion  had 


0HU0BLO 


never  entered  his  mind.  He  was  transported  with  Joy  ai  witnessing 
his  friend’s  triumph,  and  it  was  as  much  to  give  expression  to  his 
transports  as  to  amuse  his  vanity,  that  he  occupied  himself  in  rallying 
the  unfortunate  victim  of  the  day.  After  some  cross  purposes  with 
Barberigo,  he  feigned  a sudden  interest  in  a musical  discussion  which 
Porpora  was  keeping  up  with  some  of  the  company  in  the  centre  of 
the  bark,  and  thus  leaving  a situation  which  he  had  now  no  longer 
any  wish  to  retain,  he  glided  along  unobserved  almost  to  the  prow. 
He  3aw  at  the  first  glance  that  Zustiniani  did  not  relish  his  attempt  to 
interrupt  this  tete-a-tete  with  his  betrothed,  for  he  replied  coolly,  and 
even  with  displeasure.  At  last,  after  several  idle  questions  badly  re- 
ceived, he  was  advised  to  go  and  listen  to  the  instructions  which  the 
great  Porpora  was  giving  on  counterpoint. 

“ The  great  Porpora  is  not  my  master,”  said  Anzoleto,  concealing 
the  rage  which  devoured  him.  “ He  is  Consuelo’s  master;  and  if  it 
would  only  please  your  Highness,”  said  he,  in  a low  tone,  bending  to- 
wards the  count  in  an  insinuating  manner,  “ that  my  poor  Consuelo 
should  receive  no  other  lessons  than  those  of  her  old  teacher. — ” 

“ Dear  and  well-beloved  Zoto,”  replied  the  count  caressingly,  but  at 
the  same  time  with  profound  malice,  “ I have  a word  for  your  ear;” 
and  leaning  towards  him  he  added:  “Your  betrothed  has  doubtless 
received  lessons  from  you  that  must  render  her  invulnerable ; but  if  I 
had  any  pretension  to  offer  her  others,  I should  at  least  have  the  right 
of  doing  so  during  one  evening.” 

Anzoleto  felt  a chill  run  through  his  frame  from  head  to  foot 
u Will  your  gracious  Highness  deign  to  explain  yourself?  ” said  he, 
In  a choking  voice. 

M It  is  soon  done,  my  good  friend,”  replied  the  count  in  a clear  tone 
— * gondola  for  gondola” 

Anzoleto  was  terrified  when  he  found  that  the  count  had  discov- 
ered his  tete-fc-tete  with  Corilla.  The  foolish  and  audacious  girl  had 
boasted  to  Zustinani  in  a violent  quarrel  that  they  had  been  together. 
The  guilty  youth  vainly  pretended  astonishment.  “ You  had  better 
go  and  listen  to  Porpora  about  the  principle  of  the  Neapolitan 
schools,”  said  the  count ; “ you  will  come  back  and  tell  me  about  it, 
for  it  is  a subject  that  interests  me  much.” 

“ I perceive,  your  Excellency,”  replied  Anzoleto,  frantic  with  rage 
and  ready  to  dash  himself  into  the  sea. 

“ What ! ” said  the  innocent  Consuelo,  astonished  at  his  hesitation, 
u will  you  not  go  ? Permit  me,  Signor  Count ; you  shall  see  that  I am 
willing  to  serve  you.”  And  before  the  count  could  interpose,  she 
bounded  lightly  over  the  seat  which  separated  her  from  her  old  master, 
and  sat  down  close  beside  him. 

The  count,  perceiving  that  matters  were  not  far  enough  advanced, 
found  it  necessary  to  dissemble.  “ Anzoleto,”  said  he,  smiling,  and 
pulling  the  ear  of  his  protege  a little  too  hard,  “ my  revenge  is  at  an 
end.  It  has  not  proceeded  nearly  so  far  as  your  deserts ; neither  do  I 
make  the  slightest  comparison  between  the  pleasure  of  conversing  in 
the  presence  of  a dozen  persons  with  your  fair  friend  and  the  tete-h- 
tdte  which  you  have  enjoyed  in  a well-closed  gondola  with  mine.” 
w Signor  Count ! ” exclaimed  Anzoleto,  violently  agitated,  “ I pro- 
tect on  my  honor ” 

u Where  is  your  honor?  ” resumed  the  count;  w is  it  in  your  left 
ear?”  And  he  menaced  the  unfortunate  organ  with  an  mfiictioa 
flMUar  to  that  which  he  had  just  visited  the  right 


so 


const?  itld 


4 Do  you  suppose  you!  proteg<$  has  so  little  sense/’  said  Ausoiefca 
recovering  his  presence  tf  mind,  “ as  to  be  guilty  of  such  folly?  " 

“ Guilty  or  not,”  rejoined  the  count,  drily,  “ it  is  all  the  same  te 
me.”  And  he  seated  himself  beside  Coisuelo. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

Thb  musical  dissertation  was  continued  until  they  reached  the 
palace  of  Zustiniani,  where  they  arrived  towards  midnight,  to  partake 
cf  coffee  and  sherbet.  From  the  technicalities  of  art  they  had  passed 
on  to  style,  musical  ideas,  ancient  and  modem  forms ; from  that  to  ar- 
tists and  their  different  modes  of  feeling  and  expressing  themselves. 
Porpora  spoke  with  admiration  of  his  master  Scarlatti,  the  first  who 
had  imparted  a pathetic  character  to  religious  compositions ; but  there 
he  stopped,  and  would  not  admit  that  sacred  music  should  trespass 
upon  profane,  in  tolerating  ornaments,  trill,  and  roulades. 

44  Do  you,  then,  Signor,”  said  Anzoleto,  44  find  fault  with  these  and 
other  difficult  additions,  which  have  nevertheless  constituted  the  glory 
and  success  of  your  illustrious  pupil  Farinelli?  ” 

44 I only  disapprove  of  them  in  the  church,”  replied  the  maestro ; 44  I 
would  have  them  in  their  proper  place,  which  is  the  theatre.  I wish 
them  of  a pure,  sober,  genuine  taste,  and  appropriate  in  their  modu- 
lations, not  only  to  the  subject  of  which  they  treat,  but  to  the  person 
and  situation  that  are  represented,  and  the  passion  which  is  expressed. 
The  nymphs  and  shepherds  may  warble  like  any  birds;  their  ca- 
dences may  be  like  the  flowing  fountain ; but  Medea  or  Dido  can  only 
sob  and  roar  like  a wounded  lioness.  The  coquette,  indeed,  may 
load  her  silly  cavatina  with  capricious  aud  elaborate  ornament  Co- 
rilla  excels  in  this  description  of  music ; but  once  she  attempts  to  ex- 
press the  deeper  emotions,  the  passions  of  the  human  heart,  she  be- 
comes inferior  even  to  herself.  In  vain  she  struggles,  in  vain  she 
swells  her  voice  and  bosom — a note  misplaced,  an  absurd  roulade,  par- 
odies in  an  instant  the  sublimity  which  she  had  hoped  to  reach.  You 
have  all  heard  Faustina  Bordini,  now  Madame  Hasse : in  situations 
appropriate  to  her  brilliant  qualities,  she  had  no  equal;  but  when 
Cuzzoni  came,  with  her  pure,  deep  feeling,  to  sing  of  pain,  of  prayer, 
or  tenderness,  the  tears  which  she  drew  forth  banished  in  an  instant 
from  your  heart  the  recollection  of  Faustina.  The  solution  of  this  is 
to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  there  is  a showy  and  superficial  cleverness, 
very  different  from  lofty  and  creative  genius.  There  is  also  that 
which  amuses,  which  moves  us,  which  astonishes,  and  which  com- 
pletely carries  us  away.  I know  very  well  that  sudden  and  startling 
effects  are  now  in  fashion ; but  if  I taught  them  to  my  pupils  as  use- 
ful exercises,  I almost  repent  of  it  when  I see  the  majority  so  abuse 
them — so  sacrifice  what  is  necessary  to  what  is  superfluous — the  last- 
ing emotion  of  the  audience  to  cries  of  surprise  and  the  starts  of  a fe- 
verish and  transitory  pleasure. 

No  one  attempted  to  combat  conclusions  so  eternally  true  with  re- 
gard to  all  the  arts,  and  which  will  be  always  applied  to  their  varied 
manifestations  by  lofty  minds.  Nevertheless,  the  count,  who  was  cu- 
rious to  know  how  Consueb  would  sing  ordinary  music,  pretended  te 


COWBUKLO 


•2 

eombat  a little  the  severe  notions  of  Porpora;  bnt  seeing  that  the 
modest  girl,  instead  of  refuting  his  heresies,  ever  turned  her  eyes  to 
her  old  master  as  if  to  solicit  his  victorious  replies,  he  determined  to 
attack  herself,  and  asked  her  “ if  she  sang  upon  the  stage  with  as 
much  ability  and  purity  as  at  church  ? ” 

“ I do  not  think,”  she  replied,  with  unfeigned  humility,  “ that  I 
should  there  experience  the  same  inspirations,  or  acquit  myself  near- 
ly so  well.” 

“This  modest  and  sensible  reply  satisfies  me,”  said  the  count; 
* and  I feel  assured  that  if  you  will  condescend  to  study  tfi  >se  bril- 
liant difficulties  of  which  we  every  d ly  become  more  greedy,  you  will 
sufficiently  inspire  an  ardent,  curious,  and  somewhat  spoiled  public.” 

“Study!”  replied  Porpora,  with  a meaning  smile. 

“ Study ! ” cried  Anzoleto,  with  superb  disdain. 

“ Yes,  without  doubt,”  replied  Consuelo,  with  her  accustomed 
sweetness.  u Though  I have  sometimes  labored  in  this  direction,  1 
do  not  think  I should  be  able  to  rival  the  illustrious  performers  who 
have  appeared  in  our  time.” 

“You  do  not  speak  sincerely,”  exclaimed  Anzoleto,  with  anima- 
tion. “ Eccellenza,  she  does  not  speak  the  truth.  Ask  her  to  try  the 
most  elaborate  and  difficult  airs  in  the  repertory  of  the  theatre,  and 
you  will  see  what  she  can  do.” 

“ If  I did  not  think  she  were  tired,”  said  the  count,  whose  eyes 
sparkled  with  impatience  and  curiosity.  Consuelo  turned  hers  art- 
lessly to  Porpora,  as  if  to  await  his  command. 

“ Why,  as  to  that,”  said  he,  “ such  a trifle  could  not  tire  her;  and 
as  we  are  here  a select  few,  we  can  listen  to  her  talent  in  every  de- 
scription of  music.  Come,  Signor  Count,  choose  an  air,  and  accom- 
pany it  yourself  on  the  harpsichord.” 

“ The  emotion  which  the  sound  of  her  voice  would  occasion  me,** 
replied  Zustiniani,  “ would,cause  me  to  play  falsely.  Why  not  accom- 
pany her  yourself,  maestro : ” 

“ I should  wish  to  see  her  sing,”  continued  Porpora ; “ for  between 
us  be  it  said,  I have  never  seen  her  sing.  I wish  to  know  how  she  de* 
means  herself,  and  what  she  does  with  her  mouth  and  with  her  eyes. 
Come,  my  child,  arise ; it  is  for  me  as  well  as  for  you  that  this  trial  is 
to  be  made.” 

“Let  me  accompany  her,  then,”  said  Anzoleto,  seating  himself 'at 
the  instrument. 

“ You  will  frighten  me,  O my  master!”  said  Consuelo  to  Porpora. 

“ Fools  alone  are  timid,”  replied  the  master.  “ Whoever  is  inspir* 
ed  with  the  love  of  art  need  fear  nothing.  If  you  tremble  it  ifl 
because  you  are  vain ; if  you  lose  your  resources,  it  is  because  they 
are  false;  and  if  so,  I shall  be  one  of  the  first  to  say:  ‘Consuelo  £a 
good  for  nought/  ” 

And  without  troubling  himself  as  to  what  effect  these  tender  en- 
couragements might  produce,  the  professor  donned  his  spectacles, 
placed  himself  before  his  pupil,  and  began  to  beat  the  time  on  the 
harpisehord  to  give  the  true  movement  of  the  ritornella.  They  chose 
a brilliant,  strange,  and  difficult  air  from  an  opera  buffa  of  Galuppi, 
— The  Dianolessa, — in  order  to  test  her  in  a species  of  art  the  most 
opposite  to  that  in  which  she  had  succeeded  in  the  morning.  The 
voung  girl  enjoyed  a facility  so  prodigious  as  to  be  able,  almost  with- 
out study,  and  as  if  in  sport,  to  overeo  ne,  with  her  pliable  and  pow- 
erful voice,  all  the  difficulties  of  execut  on  then  known.  Porpora  had 


C0K8UEL0, 


62 

recommended  and  made  her  repeat  such  exercises  from  time  to  time, 
in  order  to  see  that  she  did  not  neglect  them ; but  he  was  quite  una- 
ware of  the  ability  of  his  wonderful  pupil  in  this  respect.  As  if  to  re- 
venge himself  for  the  bluntness  which  he  had  displayed,  Consnelo  wai 
roguish  enough  to  add  to  The  JDiavolessa  a multitude  of  turns  and  o> 
naments  until  then  esteemed  impracticable,  but  which  she  improvised 
with  as  much  unconcern  and  calmness  as  if  she  had  studied  them 
with  care. 

These  embellishments  were  so  skilftil  in  their  modulations,  of  a 
character  so  energetic,  wild,  and  startling,  and  mingled  in  the  midst 
of  their  most  impetuous  gaiety  with  accents  so  mournful,  that  a shud- 
der of  ^rror  replaced  the  enthusiasm  of  the  audience ; and  Porpora 
rising  suddenly,  cried  out  with  a loud  voice:  “You  are  the  devil  in 
person ! ” 

Consuelo  brought  her  air  to  a close  with  a crescendo  di  forza, 
which  produced  bursts  of  applause,  and  taking  her  seat  again  began 
laughing  merrily. 

“ Naughty  girl,”  cried  Porpora.  “ This  trick  you  have  played  me, 
deserves  the  gallows.  You  have  made  a fool  of  me,  concealing  from 
me  half  your  studies  and  powers.  It  is  many  a day  since  you  have 
had  aught  to  learn  of  me;  and  you  have  taken  my  lessons  treacher- 
ously ; to  steal  my  secrets  of  composition  and  of  teaching,  I fancy,  and 
so  to  outdo  me  in  everything,  and  make  me  pass  for  an  old-fashioned 
pedagogue.” 

“ Master  mine,”  Consuelo  made  reply,  “ what  have  I done  but  imi- 
tate your  trick  upon  the  Emperor  Charles  ? You  have  related  that  to 
me  already,  many  times. — How  his  Imperial  Majesty  detested  trills, 
and  forbade  your  introducing  one  into  your  oratorio ; and  how,  after 
obeying  his  orders  rigidly  unto  the  very  end  of  the  piece,  you  gave 
him  a divertissement  at  the  last  fugue,  in  perfectly  good  taste,  begin- 
ning with  four  ascending  trills,  afterwards  repeated  infinitely  in  the 
stretto  by  all  the  parts.  You  have  discoursed  all  this  evening  on  the 
abuse  of  ornament,  and  you  end  by  ordering  me  to  execute  them.  I 
executed  too  many,  in  order  to  prove  myself  capable  of  extravagance 
— a fault  to  which  I willingly  plead  guilty.” 

“I  tell  you  that  you  are  Beelzebub  incarnate,”  answered  Porpora. 
u Now  then  play  some  human  air,  and  sing  it  according  to  your  own 
notions,  for  I perceive  that  I,  at  least,  can  teach  you  no  longer.” 

“ You  will  always  be  my  revered,  always  my  beloved  master,”  cried 
she,  falling  on  his  neck  and  clasping  him  in  her  arms.  “ It  is  to  you 
only  that  I owe  my  livelihood,  my  instructions  for  the  last  ten  years. 
Oh,  master,  I have  heard  say  that  you  have  formed  but  ungrateful 
pupils ; but  may  God  deprive  me  at  once  of  the  power  of  living  and 
of  singing,  if  my  heart  is  tainted  with  the  full  venom  of  ingratitude!” 

Porpora  grew  pale,  spoke  a few  indistinct  words,  and  kissed  the 
brow  of  his  pupil  paternally ; but  with  the  kiss  he  left  a tear,  which 
Consuelo,  who  would  not  wipe  it,  felt  drying  on  her  forehead, — the*cy 
bitter  tear  of  unhappy  age,  an  I unappreciated  genius.  A sort  ol  \ 
superstitious  horror  overwhelm  id  her  with  deep  emotion,  and  her 
gaiety  was  overshadowed,  an.  her  liveliness  extinguished  for  the 
night.  An  hour  afterwards,  when  all  the  set  terms  of  admiration  had 
been  lavished  on  her — not  of  that  only,  but  of  rapture  and  surprise 
—without  drawing  her  from  her  gloom,  they  asked  for  a specimen  of 
her  dramatic  skill.  She  sang  a grand  aria  of  J omellvs  opera,  “ Didont 
Abandonata.”  Never  had  she  felt  before  the  wish  to  give  her 


COWSUELO. 


68 


>©bL  In  the  pathetic,  the  simple,  tho  grand—she  was  sublime;  and 
her  ace  showed  fairer  yet,  and  more  expressive  than  it  had  done 
Whi?/J  she  sang  in  church.  Her  complexion  was  flushed  with  a 
feverish  glow;  her  eyes  lightened  with  a strange  and  lurid  lustre.  Sha 
was  a s&int  no  longer — but  what  suited  better  far,  she  was  a woman 
tortured  by  devouring' love.  The  count,  his  friend  Barberigo,  Anzo- 
.eto,  all  the  auditors,  even,  I believe,  to  old  Porpora  himself,  were  al- 
most beside  themselves.  Clorinda  was  choking  with  envy.  Then 
Consuelo,  on  the  count’s  telling  her  that  her  engagement  should  be 
drawn  and  signed  to-morrow,  asked  him  to  promise  her  yet  another 
favor,  and  to  plight  his  word  like  a knight  of  old,  to  grant  a request 
which  he  had  not  heard.  He  did  so,  and  the  party  broke  up,  exhaust- 
ed with  that  sweet  emotion  which  is  produced  by  great  effect,  and 
wielded  at  will  by  great  intellects. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


While  Consuelo  was  achieving  all  these  triumphs,  Anzoleto  had 
lived  so  completely  in  her  as  to  forget  himself ; nevertheless,  when  the 
count  in  dismissing  him  mentioned  the  engagement  of  his  betrothed, 
without  saying  a word  of  his  own,  he  called  to  mind  the  coolness 
with  which  he  had  been  treated  during  the  evening,  and  the  dread  of 
being  ruined  without  remedy  poisoned  all  his  joy.  The  idea  darted 
across  his  mind  to  leave  Consuelo  on  the  steps,  leaning  on  Porpora’s 
arm,  and  to  return  to  cast  himself  at  the  feet  of  his  benefactor ; but 
as  at  this  moment  he  hated  him,  we  must  say  in  his  praise  that  he 
withstood  the  temptation  to  humiliate  himself.  When  he  had  taken 
leave  of  Porpora,  and  repaired  to  accompany  Consuelo  along  the 
canal,  the  gondoliers  of  the  count  informed  him  that  by  the  commands 
of  their  master  the  gondola  waited  to  conduct' the  signora  home.  A 
cold  perspiration  burst  upon  his  forehead.  “ The  signora,”  said  be, 
rudely,  “ is  accustomed  to  use  her  own  limbs ; she  is  much  obliged  to 
the  count  for  his  attentions.” 

*'  By  what  right  do  you  refuse  for  her?”  said  the  count,  who  was 
close  behind  him.  Anzoleto  turned  and  saw  him,  not  with  uncovered 
head,  as  a man  who  dismissed  his  guests,  but  with  bis  cloak  thrown 
over  Ms  shoulders,  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and  his  sword  in  the  other, 
ms  one  who  seeks  adventures.  Anzoleto  was  so  enraged,  that  a 
'bought  of  stabbing  him  with  the  long  narrow  knife  which  a Venetian 
always  carried  about  concealed  on  his  person,  flashed  across  his  mind. 
u I hope,  Signora,”  said  the  count,  in  a firm  voice,  “ that  you  will  not 
iffer  me  the  affront  of  refusing  my  gondola  to  take  you  home,  and 
uausing  me  the  vexation  of  not  permitting  me  to  assist  you  to  enter 
V’ 


Consuelo,  always  confiding,  and  suspecting  nothing  of  what  passed 
around  her,  accepted  the  offer,  thanked  him,  and  placing  her  pretty 
rounded  elbow  in  the  hand  of  the  count,  she  sprang  without  ceremo- 
ny into  the  gondola.  Then  a dumb  but  energetic  dialogue  took  place 
between  the  Count  and  Anzoleto.  The  count,  with  one  foot  on  the 
bank  and  one  on  the  bark,  measured  Anzoleto  with  his  eye,  who, 
standing  on  the  last  step  of  the  stairs  leading  from  the  wafer’s  edge 


64 


CONSUELO, 


to  the  pa_ace,  measured  him  with  a fierce  air  in  return,  his  hand  in 
his  breast,  and  grasping  the  handle  of  his  knife.  A single  step,  and 
the  count  was  lost.  What  was  most  characteristic  of  the  Venetian 
disposition  in  this  rapid  and  silent  scene,  was,  that  the  two  rivals 
watched  each  other  without  either  hastening  the  catastrophe.  The 
count  was  determined  to  torture  his  rival  by  apparent  irresolution, 
and  he  did  so  at  leisure,  although  he  saw  and  comprehended  the  gesk 
ture  of  Anzoleto.  On  his  side,  Anzoleto  had  strength  to  wait,  with- 
out betraying  himself,  until  it  would  please  the  count  to  finish  his 
malicious  pleasantry  or  to  surrender  life.  This  pantomime  lasted  two 
minutes,  which  seemed  to  Anzoleto  an  age,  and  which  the  count  sup- 
ported with  stoical  disdain.  The  count  then  made  a profound  bow 
to  Consuelo,  and  turning  towards  his  protege,  “ I permit  you  also,” 
said  he,  “ to  enter  my  gondola ; in  future  you  will  know  how  a gallant 
man  conducts  himself;”  and  he  stepped  back  to  allow  Anzoleto  to 
pass  into  the  boat.  Then  he  gave  orders  to  the  gondolier  to  row  to 
the  Corte  Minelli,  while  he  remained  standing  on  the  bank,  motionless 
as  a statue.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  awaited  some  new  attempt 
at’ murder  on  the  part  of  his  humiliated  rival. 

“How  does  the  count  know  your  abode?”  was  the  first  word 
which  Anzoleto  addressed  to  his  betrothed,  when  they  were  out  of 
sight  of  the  palace  of  Zustiniani. 
u Because  I told  him,”  replied  Consuelo. 
u And  why  did  you  tell  him  ? ” — 

“ Because  he  asked  me.” 

* You  do  not  guess  then  why  he  wished  to  know?  ” 

* Probably  to  convey  me  home.” 

w Do  you  think  so  ? Do  you  think  he  will  not  come  to  see  you  ? ” 
u Come  to  see  me  ? what  madness  I And  in  such  a wretched  abode  1 
That  would  be  an  excess  of  politeness  which  I should  never  wish.” 
u Vou  do  well  not  to  wish  it,  Consuelo;  for  excess  of  shame  might 
ensue  from  this  excess  of  honor.” 

* Shame  I and  why  shame  to  me  ? In  good  faith  I do  not  under- 
stand you  to-night,  dear  Anzoleto ; and  I think  it  rather  odd  that  you 
should  speak  of  things  I do  not  comprehend,  instead  of  expressing 
yourjoy  at  our  incredible  and  unexpected  success.” 

“ Unexpected  indeed,”  returned  Anzoleto,  bitterly. 
u It  seemed  to  me  that  at  vespers,  and  while  they  applauded  me  this 
evening,  you  were  even  more  enchanted  than  I was.  You  looked  at 
me  with  such,  passionate  eyes  that  my  happiness  was  doubled  in  see- 
ing it  reflected  from  you.  But  now  you  are  gloomy  and  out  of  sorts, 
just  as  when  we  wanted  bread,  ai^our  prospects  were  uncertain, 

“ And  now  you  wish  that  I should  rejoice  in  the  future?  Possibly 
it  is  no  longer  uncertain,  but  assuredly  it  presents  nothing  cheering 
for  me.” 

“ What  more  would  we  have  ? It  is  hardly  a week  since  you  ap- 
peared before  the  count  and  were  received  with  enthusiasm.” 

“ My  success  was  infinitely  eclipsed  by  yours — you  know  it  well” 
“I  hope  not;  besides,  if  it  were  so,  there  can  be  no  jealousy  be- 
tween us.” 

These  ingenuous  words,  uttered  with  the  utmost  truth  and  tender- 
ness, calmed  the  heart  of  Anzoleto.  " Ah,  you  are  right,”  said  he 
clasping  his  betrothed  in  his  arms;  “ we  cannot  be  jealous  of  each 
other,  we  cannot  deceive  each  other : ” but  as  he  xttered  these  word* 
fee  recalled  with  remorse  his  adventure  with  Corilla,  and  it  occurred  to 


6OKSUBL0. 


66 


that  the  count,  Id  arder  to  punish  him,  might  reveal  his  conduct 
th Consuelo  whenever  he  had  reason  to  suppose  that  she  in  the  least 
encouraged  him.  He  fell  into  a gloomy  reverie,  and  Consuelo  aiso 
became  pensive. 

u Why,”  said  she,  after  a moment’s  silence,  “ did  you  say  that  we 
could  not  deceive  each  other  ? It  is  a great  truth  surely,  but  why  did 
you  just  then  think  of  it?  ” 

“ Hush ! let  us  not  say  another  word  in  this  gondola,”  said  Anzo- 
leto ; “ they  will  hear  what  we  say,  and  tell  it  to  the  count.  This  vel- 
vet covering  is  very  thin,  and  these  palace  gondolas  have  recesses  four 
times  as  deep  and  as  large  as  those  for  hire.  Permit  me  to  accom- 
pany you  home,”  said  he,  when  they  had  been  put  ashore  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  Corte  Minelli. 

“ You  know  that  it  is  contrary  to  our  usage,  and  engagement,”  re- 
plied she. 

“ Oh  do  not  refuse  me,”  said  Anzoleto,  “ else  you  will  plunge  me 
into  fury  and  despair.” 

Frightened  by  his  tone  and  his  words,  Consuelo  dared  no  longer  re- 
fuse; and  when  she  had  lighted  her  lamp  and  drawn  the  curtains, 
seeing  him  gloomy  and  lost  in  thought  she  threw  her  arms  around 
him.  “ How  unhappy  and  disquieted  you  seem  this  evening!  ” said 
she  • “ what  is  passing  in  your  mind  ? ” 

“ l)o  you  not  know,  Consuelo  ? do  you  not  guess  ? ” 

“ No,  on  my  soul ! ” 

“ Swear  that  you  do  not  guess  it.  Swear  it  by  the  soul  of  your 
mother— by  your  hopes  of  heaven  I ” 

“Oh,  I swear  it!” 

“ And  by  our  love  ? ” 

“ By  our  love.” 

“ I believe  you,  Consuelo,  for  it  would  be  the  first  time  you  ever 
uttered  an  untruth ! ” 

“ And  now  will  you  explain  yourself.” 

“ I shall  explain  nothing.  Perhaps  I may  have  to  explain  myself 
loon ; and  when  that  moment  comes,  and  when  you  have  too  well 
comprehended  me,  woe  to  us  both,  the  day  on  which  you  know  what 
I now  suffer ! ” 

“ O Heaven ! What  new  misfortune  threatens  us  ? what  curse  as- 
sails us,  as  we  re-enter  this  poor  chamber,  where  hitherto  we  had  no 
secrets  from  each  other  ? Something  too  surely  told  me  when  I left 
it  this  morning  that  I should  return  with  death  in  my  soul.  What 
have  I done  that  I should  not  enjoy  a day  that  promised  so  well  ? 
Have  I not  prayed  God  sincerely  and  ardently  ? Have  I not  thrust 
aside  each  proud  thought  ? Have  I not  suffered  from  Clorinda’s  hu- 
miliation ? Have  I not  obtained  from  the  count  a promise  that  he 
should  engage  her  as  seconda  donna  with  us  ? What  have  I done, 
must  I again  ask,  to  incur  the  sufferings  of  which  you  speak — which 
I already  feel  since  you  feel  them  ? ” 

“ And  did  you  indeed  procure  an  engagement  for  Clorinda  ? r 
“ I am  resolved  upon  it,  and  the  count  is  a man  of  his  word.  Thia 
poor  girl  has  always  dreamed  of  the  theatre,  and  has  no  other  means 
of  subsistence.” 

“ And  do  you  think  that  the  count  will  part  with  Rosalba,  who 
knows  something,  for  Clorinda,  who  knows  nothing  ? ” 

“ Rosalba  will  follow  her  sister  Corilla’s  fortunes ; and  as  to  Clorinda 
W®  Bh*dl  give  her  lessons,  and  teach  to  turn  her  voice,  which  fa  not 

vfe*--'  ■ • > I 


M 


COffSUKLO, 


Amiss,  to  the  best  account.  The  public,  best  ies,  will  be  indulgent  to 
a pretty  girl.  Were  she  only  to  obtain  a third  place,  it  would  be 
always  something — a beginning— a source  of  subsistence.” 

“ You  are  a saint,  Consuelo ; you  do  not  see  that  this  dolt,  in  ac- 
cepting your  intervention,  although  she  should  be  happy  in  obtaining 
a third  or  even  a fourth  place,  will  never  pardon  you  for  being  first” 

“What  signifies  her  ingratitude  ? I know  already  what  ingratitude 
and  the  ungrateful  are.” 

“ You  1 ” said  Anzoleto,  bursting  into  a laugh,  as  he  embraced  her 
with  all  his  old  brotherly  warmth. 

“ Oh,  ” replied  she,  enchanted  at  having  diverted  him  from  his 
cares,  “ I should  always  have  before  my  eyes  the  image  of  my  noble 
master  Porpora.  Many  bitter  words  he  uttered  which  he  thought 
me  incapable  of  comprehending ; but  they  sank  deep  into  my  heart, 
and  shall  never  leave  it.  He  is  a man  who  has  suffered  greatly,  and 
is  devoured  by  sorrow.  From  his  grief -and  his  deep  indignation,  as 
well  as  what  has  escaped  from  him  before  me,  I have  learned  that 
artists,  my  dear  Anzoleto,  are  more  wicked  and  dangerous  than  I 
could  suppose — that  the  public  is  fickle,  forgetful,  cruel,  and  unjust— 
that  a great  career  is  but  a heavy  cross,  and  that  glory  is  a crown  of 
thorns.  Yes,  I know  all  that,  and  I have  thought  and  reflected  upon 
it  so  often,  that  I think  I should  neither  be  astonished  nor  cast  down 
were  I to  experience  it  myself.  Therefore  it  is  that  you  have  not 
been  able  to  intoxicate  me  by  the  triumph  of  to-day — therefore  it 
is  your  dark  thoughts  have  not  discouraged  me.  I do  not  yet  compre- 
hend them  very  well ; but  I know  that  with  you,  and  provided  you 
love  me,  I shall  strive  not  to  hate  and  despise  mankind  like  my  poor 
unhappy  master,  that  noble  yet  simple  old  man. 

In  listening  to  his  betrothed,  Anzoleto  recovered  his  serenity  anti 
his  courage.  She  exercised  great  influence  over  him,  and  each  day 
he  discovered  in  her  a firmness  and  rectitude  which'  supplied  every- 
thing that  was  wanting  in  himself.  The  terrors  with  which  jealousy 
had  inspired  him,  were  forgotten  at  the  end  of  a quarter  of  an  hoar’s 
conversation ; and  when  she  questioned  him  again  he  was  so  much 
ashamed  of  having  suspected  a being  so  pure  and  so  calm,  that  he 
ascribed  his  agitation  to  other  causes.  “ I am  only  afraid,”  said  he, 
“ that  the  count  will  find  you  so  superior,  that  he  shall  judge  me 
unworthy  to  appear  with  you  before  the  public.  He  seemed  this 
evening  to  have  forgotten  my  very  existence.  He  did  not  even  per- 
ceive that  in  accompanying  you  I played  well.  In  fine,  when  he  told 
you  of  your  engagement,  he  did  not  say  a word  of  mine.  How  is  it 
that  you  did  not  remark  that  ? ” 

“ It  never  entered  my  head  that  I should  be  engaged  without  you. 
Does  he  not  know  that  nothing  would  persuade  me  to  it? — that  w* 
are  betrothed? — that  we  love  each  other?  Have  you  not  told  him  all 
this?” 


“ I have  told  him  so,  but  perhaps  he  thinks  that  I wish  to  boast, 
Consuelo.” 

“ In  that  easel  shall  boast  myself  of  my  love,  Anzoleto:  I shall 
tell  him  so  that  he  cannot  doubt  it.  But  you  are  deceived,  my  friend ; 
the  count  has  not  thought  it  necessary  to  speak  of  your  engagement 
because  it  was  a settled  thing  since  the  clay  that  jou  sung  so  well, 
at  his  house.” 

“ Brit  not  yet  ratified,  and  your  engagement  he  has  told  you  will 
h«  tigned  to-morrow,” 


C O S S V 2 l.  G.  8? 

* Do  you  think  I shall  sign  the  first  ? Oh,  no ! you  have  done  well 
to  put  me  on  my  guard.  My  name  shall  be  written  below  yours.  ’ 

“ You  swear  it  ? ” 

“ Oh,  fie ! Do  you  ask  oaths  for  what  you  know  so  well  ? Truly 
you  do  not  love  me  this  evening,  or  you  would  not  make  me  suffer  by 
seeming  to  imagine  that  I did  not  love  you.” 

At  this  thought  Consuelo’s  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  sat  down 
with  a pouting  air,  which  rendered  her  charming.  I am  a fool— an 
ass ! thought  Anzoleto.  “ How  could  I for  one  instant  suppose  that 
the  count  could  triumph  over  a soul  so  pure — an  affection  so  full  and 
entire  ? He  is  not  so  inexperienced  as  not  to  perceive  at  a glance  that 
Consuelo  is  not  for  him,  and  he  would  not  have  been  so  generous  as 
to  offer  me  a place  in  his  gondola,  had  he  not  known  that  he  would 
have  played  the  part  of  a fool  there.  No,  no ; my  lot  is  well  assured 
— my  position  unassailable.  Let  Consuelo  please  him  or  not,  let  him 
love,  pay  court  to  her — all  that  can  only  advance  my  fortunes,  for  she 
will  soon  learn  to  obtain  what  she  wishes  without  incurring  any  dan- 
ger. Consuelo  will  soon  be  better  informed  on  this  head  than  myself. 
She  is  prudent,  she  is  energetic.  The  pretensions  of  the  dear  count 
will  only  turn  to  my  profit  and  glory.” 

And  thus  adjuring  all  his  doubts,  he  cast  himself  at  the  feet  of  his 
betrothed,  and  gave  vent  to  that  passionate  enthusiasm  which  he  now 
experienced  for  the  first  time,  and  which  his  jealousy  had  served  for 
some  hours  to  restrain. 

“ O my  beauty — my  saint — my  queen ! ” he  cried  “ excuse  me  fbr 
having  thought  of  myself  before  you,  as  I should  have  done,  on  finding 
myself  again  with  you  in  this  chamber.  I left  it  this  morning  in  anger 
with  you.  Yes,  yes;  I should  have  re-entered  it  upon  my  knees. 
How  could  you  love  and  smile  upon  a brute  like  me  ? Strike  me  with 
your  fan,  Consuelo;  place  your  pretty  foot  upon  my  neck.  You  are 
greater  than  I am  by  a hundred  fold,  and  I am  your  slave  forever 
from  this  day.” 

“ I do  not  deserve  these  fine  speeches,”  said  she,  abandoning  her- 
self to  his  transports ; “ and  I excuse  your  doubts,  because  I compre- 
hend them.  It  was  the  fear  of  being  separated  from  me — of  seeing 
our  lot  divided — which  caused  you  all  this  unhappiness.  You  have 
failed  in  your  faith  in  God,  which  is  much  worse  than  having  accused 
me.  But  I shall  pray  for  you,  and  say — ‘ Lord,  forgive  as^I  forgive 
him.’” 

While  thus  innocently  and  simply  expressing  her  love,  and  min- 
gling with  it  that  Spanish  feeling  of  devotion  so  full  of  human 
affection  and  ingenuous  candor,  Consuelo  was  beautiful.  Anzoleto 
gazed  on  her  with  rapture. 

“ Oh,  thou  mistress  of  my  soul!”  he  exclaimed,  in  a suffocated 
voice,  “ be  mine  for  ever  more ! ” 

“When  you  will— to-morrow,”  said  Consuelo,  with  a heavenly 
smile. 

“ To-morrow  ? and  why  to-morrow  ? ” 

“ You  are  right;  it  is  now  past  midnight — we  may  be  married  to- 
day. When  the  sun  rises  let  us  seek  the  priest.  We  have  no  friends, 
and  the  ceremony  need  not  be  long.  I have  the  muslin  dress  which 
I have  never  yet  worn.  When  I made  it,  dear  Anzoleto,  I said  to 
myself— 4 Perhaps  I may  not  have  money  to  purchase  my  wedding 
dress,  and  if  my  friend  should  soon  decide  on  marrying  me,  I woula 
be  obliged  to  wear  one  that  I have  had  on  already/  That,  they  say* 


CONSUXLO, 


•8 

is  unlucky.  So,  when  my  mother  appeared  to  me  In  a dream,  to  take 
it  from  me  and  lay  it  aside,  she  knew  what  she  did,  poor  soul ! Thera* 
fore,  by  to-morrow’s  sun  we  sha.l  swear  at  San  Samuel  fidelity  for 
ever.  Did  you  wish  to  satisfy  yourself  first,  wicked  one,  that  I was 
not  ugly  ? ” 

“O  Consuelo!”  exclaimed  Anzoleto,  with  anguish,  "you  are  a 
child.  We  could  not  marry  thus,  from  one  day  to  another,  without 
its  being  known.  The  Count  and  Porpora,  whose  protection  is  so 
accessary  to  us,  would  be  justly  irritated  if  we  took  this  step  without 
consulting  or  even  informing  them.  Your  old  master  does  not  like 
me  too  well,  and  the  count,  as  I know,  does  not  care  much  for  mar- 
ried singers.  We  cannot  go  to  San  Samuel,  where  everybody  knows 
us,  and  where  the  first  old  woman  we  met  would  make  the  palace  ac- 
quainted with  it  in  half  an  hour.  We  must  keep  our  union  secret.” 

“ No,  Anzoleto,”  said  Consuelo,  “ I cannot  consent  to  so  rash — so 
ill-advised  a step.  I did  not  think  of  the  objections  you  have  urged 
to  a public  marriage ; but  if  they  are  well  founded,  they  apply  with 
equal  force  to  a private  and  clandestine  one.  It  was  not  I who  first 
spoke  of  it.  Anzoleto,  although  I thought  more  than  once  that  we  were 
old  enough  to  be  married ; yet  it  seemed  right  to  leave  the  decision  to 
your  prudence,  and,  if  I must  say  it,  to  your  wishes;  for  I saw  very 
well  that  you  were  in  no  hurry  to  make  me  your  wife,  nor  had  I any 
desire  to  remind  you.  You  have  often  told  me  that  before  settling 
ourselves,  we  must  think  of  our  future  family,  and  secure  the  needful 
resources.  My  mother  said  the  same,  and  it  is  only  right.  Thus,  all 
things  considered,  it  would  be  too  soon.  First,  our  engagement  must 
be  signed — is  not  that  so? — then  we  must  be  certain  of  the  good  will 
of  the  public.  We  can  speak  of  all  this  after  we  make  our  debut. 
But  why  do  you  grow  pale,  Anzoleto?  Wrhy  do  you  wring  your 
hands?  O Heavens!  are  we  not  happy?  Does  it  need  an  oath  to 
insure  our  mutual  love  and  reliance?” 

“ o Consuelo  1 how  calm  you  are  I — how  pure  I — how  cold  1 n ex- 
claimed Anzoleto,  with  a sort  of  despair. 

“ Cold!  ” exclaimed  the  young  Spaniard,  stupefied,  and  crimsoned 
with  indignation.  * God,  who  reads  my  heart,  knows  whether  I love 
you ! ” 

“ Very  well,”  retorted  Anzoleto,  angrily ; “ throw  yourself  into  his 
bosom,  for  mine  is  no  safe  refuge;  and  I shall  fly  lest  I become  im- 
pious.” 

Thus  saying  he  rushed  towards  the  door,  believing  that  Consuelo, 
who  had  hitherto  never  been  able  to  separate  from  him  in  any  quar- 
rel however  trifling,  would  hasten  to  prevent  him ; and  in  fact  she 
made  an  impetuous  movement  as  if  to  spring  after  him,  then  stopped, 
saw  him  go  out,  ran  likewise  to  the  door,  and  put  her  hand  on  the 
hktch  in  order  to  call  him  back.  But  summoning  up  all  her  resolution 
by  a superhuman  effort,  she  fastened  the  bolt  behind  him,  and  them 
overcome  by  the  violent  struggle  she  had  undergone,  sje  swooned 
away  upon  the  floor,  where  she  remain  3d  motionless  till  daybreak* 


«OK*U*L©v 


ft 


CHAPTER  XIT. 

aI  must  confess  that  I am  completely  enchanted  with  her,*  said 
Count  Zustiniani  to  his  friend  Barberigo,  as  they  conversed  together 
on  the  balcony  of  his  palace  about  two  o’clock  the  same  night 
“ That  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  I must  not  be  so,”  replied  the 
young  and  brilliant  Barberigo,  “ and  I yield  the  point,  for  your  rights 
take  precedence  of  mine.  Nevertheless,  if  Corilla  should  mesh  you 
afresh  in  her  nets,  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  let  me  know,  that  1 
may  try  and  win  her  ear.” 

“ Do  not  think  of  it,  if  you  love  me.  Corilla  has  never  been  other 
than  a plaything.  I see  by  your  countenance  that  you  are  but  mock- 
ing me.” 

“ No,  but  I think  that  the  amusement  is  somewhat  serious  which 
causes  us  to  commit  such  follies  and  incur  such  expense.” 

“ I admit  that  I pursue  my  pleasures  with  so  much  ardor  that  I 
spare  no  expense  to  prolong  them;  but  in  this  case  it  is  more  than 
fancy — it  is  passion  which  I feel.  I never  saw  a creature  so  strangely 
beautiful  as  this  Consuelo ; she  is  like  a lamp  that  pales  from  time  to 
time,  but  which  at  the  moment  when  it  is  apparently  about  to  expire, 
sheds  so  bright  a light  that  the  very  stars  are  eclipsed.” 

“ Ah!”  said  Barberigo,  sighing,  “ that  little  black  dress  and  white 
collar,  that  slender  and  half  devout  toilet,  that  pale,  calm  face,  at 
first  so  little  striking,  that  frank  address  and  astonishing  absence  of 
coquetry — all  become  transformed,  and,  as  it  were,  grow  divine 
■when  inspired  by  her  own  lofty  genius  of  song.  Happy  Zustiniani, 
who  hold  in  your  hands  the  destinies  of  this  dawning  star!” 

‘ ‘Would  I were  secure  of  the  happiness  which  you  envy!  But  I am 
discouraged  when  I find  none  of  those  passions  with  which  I am  ac- 
quainted, and  which  are  so  easy  to  bring  into  play.  Imagine,  friend, 
that  this  girl  remains  an  enigma:  to  me  even  after  a whole  day’s  study 
of  her.  It  would  almost  seem  from  her  tranquillity  and  my  awkward- 
ness, that  I am  already  so  far  gone  that  I cannot  see  clearly.” 

“ Truly  you  are  captivated,  since  you  already  grow  blind.  I,  whom 
hope  does  not  confuse,  can  tell  you  in  three  words  what  you  do  not 
understand.  Consuelo  is  the  flower  of  innocence ; she  loves  the  little 
Anzoleto,  and  will  love  him  yet  for  some  time ; but  if  you  affront  this 
attachment  of  childhood,  you  will  only  give  it  fresh  strength.  Ap- 
pear to  consider  it  of  no  importance,  and  the  comparison  which  she 
will  not  fail  to  make  between  you  and  him  will  not  fail  to  cool  her 
preference.” 

“ But  the  rascal  is  as  handsome  as  an  Apollo,  he  has  a magnificent 
voice,  and  must  succeed.  Corilla  is  already  crazy  about  him ; he  is 
not  one  to  be  despised  by  a girl  who  has  eyes.” 

M But  he  is  poor,  and  you  are  rich — he  is  unknown,  and  you  are 
powerful.  The  needful  thing  is  to  find  out  whether  they  are  merely 
betrothed,  or  whether  a more  intimate  connexion  binds  them.  In 
the  latter  case  Consuelo’s  eyes  will  soon  be  opened ; in  the  former 
there  will  be  a struggle  and  uncertainty  which  will  but  prolong  her 
anguish.” 

“I  must  then  desire  what  I horribly  fear,  and  which  maddens  nr 
with  rage  when  I think  of  it.  What  do  yon  suppose  f 9 
* I think  they  are  merely  betrothed,” 


70 


©OHIUlLd 


“ But  it  is  impossible.  He  is  a bold  and  ardent  youth,  and  then  tba 
manners  of  those  people ! ” 

“ Consuelo  is  in  all  respects  a prodigy.  You  hare  had  experience 
to  little  purpose,  dear  Zustiniani,  if  you  do  not  see  in  all  the  more- 
ments,  all  the  looks,  all  the  words  of  this  girl,  that  she  is  pure  as  the 
ocean  gem.” 

“ You  transport  me  with  joy.”  * 

“ Take  care — it  is  folly,  prejudice.  If  you  love  Consuelo,  she  must 
be  married  to-morrow,  so  that  in  eight  days  her  master  may  make  her 
feel  the  weight  of  her  chain,  the  torments  of  jealousy,  the  ennui  of  a 
troublesome,  unjust,  and  faithless  guardian;  for  the  handsome  Anzo- 
leto  will  be  all  that.  I could  not  observe  him  yesterday  between  Con- 
suelo and  Clorinda  without  being  able  to  prophesy  her  wrongs  and 
misfortunes.  Follow  my  advice,  and  you  will  thank  me.  The  bond 
of  marriage  is  easy  to  unloose  between  people  of  that  condition,  and 
you  know  that  with  women  love  is  an  ardent  fancy  which  only  In- 
ci  eases  with  obstacles.” 

“ You  drive  me  to  despair,”  replied  the  count;  “nevertheless,!  feel 
that  you  are  right.  ” 

Unhappily  for  the  designs  of  Count  Zustiniani,  this  dialogue  had  a 
listener  upon  whom  they  did  not  reckon,  and  who  did  not  lose  one  syl- 
lable of  it.  After  quitting  Consuelo,  Anzoleto,  stung  with  jealousy 
had  come  to  prowl  about  the  palace  of  his  protector,  in  order  to  assure 
himself  that  the  count  did  not  intend  one  of  those  forcible  abductions 
then  so  much  in  vogue,  and  for  which  the  patricians  had  almost  entire 
impunity.  He  could  hear  no  more,  for  the  moon,  which  just  then 
arose  over  the  roofs  of  the  palace,  began  to  cast  his  shadow  on  the 
pajpnent  and  the  two  young  lords,  perceiving  that  a man  was  under 
tWSalcony,  withdrew  and  closed  the  window. 

Anzoleto  disappeared  in  order  to  ponder  at  his  leisure  on  what  he 
had  just  heard ; it  was  quite  enough  to  direct  him  what  course  to  take 
in  order  to  profit  by  the  virtuous  counsels  of  Barberigo  to  his  friend. 
He  slept  scarcely  two  hours,  and  immediately  when  he  awoke  ran  to 
the  Corte  Minelli.  The  door  was  still  locked,  but  through  the  chinks 
he  could  see  Consuelo,  dressed,  stretched  on  the  bed  and  sleeping,  pale 
and  motionless  as  death.  The  coolness  of  the  morning  had  roused  her 
from  her  swoon,  and  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed  without  having 
strength  to  undress.  He  stood  for  some  moments  looking  at  her  with 
remorseful  disquietude,  but  at  last  becoming  uneasy  at  this  heavy  sleep, 
so  contrary  to  the  active  habits  of  his  betrothed,  he  gently  enlarged  an 
opening  through  which  he  could  pass  his  knife  and  slide  back  the  bolt. 
This  occasioned  some  noise:  but  Ccnsuelo,  overcome  with  fatigue, 
was  not  awakened.  He  then  entered,  knelt  down  beside  her  couch, 
and  remained  thus  until  she  awoke.  On  finding  him  there,  Consuelo 
uttered  a cry  of  joy,  but  instantly  taking  away  her  arms,  which  she 
had  thrown  round  his  neck,  she  drew  back  with  an  expression  of 
alarm. 

“You  disad  me  now,  and  instead  of  embracing,  fly  me,”  said  he 
with  grief.  “Oh,  I am  cruelly  punished  for  my  fault;  pardon  me, 
Consuelo,  and  see  if  you  have  ever  cause  to  mistrust  your  friend 
again.  I have  watched  you  sleeping  for  a whole  hour;  pardon  me, 
sister — it  is  the  first  and  last  time  you  shall  have  to  blame  or  repulse 
your  brother;  I shall  never  m>re  offend  you  by  my  jealousies  or  pas- 
sions. Leave  me,  banish  me  if  I fail  in  my  oath.  Are  you  satisfied, 
dear  and  good  Consuelo?” 


n 


C OVIUIIO. 

Consuelo  only  replied  by  pressing  the  fair  head  of  the  Venetian  to 
her  heart,  and  bathing  it  with  tears.  This  outburst  comforted  her; 
and  soon  after  falling  back  on  her  pillow,  “ I confess,”  said  she,  M that 
I am  overcome ; I hardly  slept  all  night,  we  parted  so  unhappily.” 

“ Sleep,  Consuelo ; sleep,  dear  angel,”  replied  Anzoleto.  “ Do  you 
remember  the  night  that  you  allowed  me  to  sleep  on  your  couch, 
while  you  worked  and  prayed  at  your  little  table?  It  is  now  my 
turn  to  watch  and  protect  you. — Sleep,  my  child : I shall  turn  over 
your  music  and  read  it  to  myself  whilst  you  repose  an  hour  or  two ; 
no  one  will  disturb  us  before  the  evening.  Sleep,  then,  and  prove  by 
this  confidence  that  you  pardon  and  trust  me.” 

Consuelo  replied  by  a heavenly  smile.  He  kissed  her  forehead  and 
placed  himself  at  the  table,  while  she  onjoyed  a refreshing  sleep,  min- 
gled with  sweet  dreams. 

Anzoleto  had  lived  calmly  and  innocently  too  long  with  this  young 
girl  to  render  it  difficult  after  one  day’s  agitation,  to  regain  his  usu sd 
demeanor.  This  brotherly  feeling  was,  as  it  were,  the  ordinary  condi- 
tion of  his  soul ; besides,  what  he  had  heard  the  preceding  night  un- 
der the  balcony  of  'Zustiniani,  was  well  calculated  to  strengthen  his 
faltering  purpose.  “ Thanks,  my  brave  gentlemen,”  said  he  to  him- 
self; “you  have  given  me  a lesson  which  the  rascal  will  turn  to  ac- 
count just  as  much  as  one  of  your  own  class.  I shall  abstain  from 
jealousy,  infidelity,  or  any  weakness  which  may  give  you  an  advan- 
tage over  me.  Illustrious  and  profound  Barberigo  1 your  prophecies 
bring  counsel ; it  is  good  to  be  of  your  school.” 

Thus  reflecting,  Anzoleto,  overcome  by  a sleepless  night,  dozed  in 
his  turn,  his  head  supported  on* his  hand,  and  his  elbows  on  the 
table ; but  his  sleep  was  not  sound,  and  the  daylight  had  begun  to  de- 
cline as  he  rose  to  see  if  Consuelo  still  slumbered.  The  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  streaming  through  the  window,  cast  a glorious  purple 
tinge  on  the  old  bed  and  its  beautiful  occupant.  Her  white  mantilla 
she  had  made  into  a curtain,  which  was  secured  to  a filagree  crucifix 
nailed  to  the  wall  above  her  head.  Her  veil  fell  gracefully  over  her 
well-proportioned  and  admirable  figure ; and,  bathed  in  this  rose-col- 
ored light  as  a flower  which  closes  its  leaves  together  at  the  approach 
of  evening,  her  long  tresses  falling  upon  her  white  shoulders,  her 
hands  crossed  on  her  bosom  as  a saint  on  her  marble  tomb,  she  looked 
bo  chaste  and  heavenly  that  Anzoleto  mentally  exclaimed,  “ Ah, 
Count  Jiustiniani,  that  you  could  see  her  this  moment,  and  behold  the 
prudent  and  jealous  guardian  of  a treasure  you  vainly  covet,  beside 
her!” 

At  this  moment,  a faint  noise  was  heard  outside,  and  Anzoleto, 
whose  faculties  were  kept  on  the  stretch,  thought  he  recognised  the 
splashing  of  water  at  the  foot  of  Consuelo’s  ruined  dwelling,  although 
gondolas  rarely  approached  the  Corte  Minelli.  He  mounted  on  a 
chair,  and  was  by  this  means  able  to  see  through  a sort  of  loop-hole 
near  the  ceiling,  which  looked  towards  the  canal.  He  distinctly  saw 
Count  Zustiniani  leave  his  bark,  and  question  the  half-naked  children 
who  played  on  the  beach.  He  was  uncertain  whether  he  should 
awaken  his  betrothed  or  close  the  door;  but,  during  the  ten  minutes 
which  the  count  occupied  n finding  out  the  garret  of  Consuelo,  he 
had  time  to  regain  the  utmost  self-possession  and  to  leave  the 
door  agar,  so  that  anyone  might  enter  without  noise  or  hindrance , 
then  reseating  himself,  he  took  a pen  and  pretended  to  write  musie. 
He  appeared  ^rfectly  calm  and  tranquil,  although  his  heart  beat  vio- 


72 


CONSUELO. 


The  count  slipped  in,  rejoicing  in  the  idea  of  surprising  his  protafdc 
whose  obvious  destitution  he  conceived  would  favor  his  corrupt  in- 
tentions. He  brought  Consuelo’s  engagement  ready  signed  along 
with  him,  and  he  thought  with  such  a passport  his  reception  could 
not  be  very  discouraging ; but  at  the  first  sight  of  the  strange  sanctu- 
ary in  which  this  sweet  girl  slept  her  angelic  sleep  under  the  watch- 
ful eye  of  her  contented  lover,  Count  Zustiniani  lost  his  presence  of 
mind,  entangled  his  cloak  which  he  had  thrown  with  a conquering  air 
over  his  shoulders,  and  stopped  between  the  bed  and  the  table,  utter- 
ly uncertain  whom  he  should  address.  Anzoleto  was  revenged  for  the 
scene  at  the  entrance  of  the  gondola. 

“ My  lord,”  he  exclaimed,  rismg,  as  if  surprised  by  an  unexpected 
visit,  “ shall  I awake  my  betrothed  ? ” 

“ No,”  replied  the  count,  already  at  his  ease,  and  affecting  to  turn 
his  back  that  he  might  contemplate  Consuelo ; “ I am  so  happy  to  see 
her  thus,  I forbid  you  to  awaken  her.” 

“ Yes,  you  may* look  at  her,”  thought  Anzoleto;  “ it  is  all  I wished 
for.” 

Consuelo  did  not  awaken,  and  the  count,  speaking  in  a low  tone 
and  assuming  a gracious  and  tranquil,  aspect,  expressed  his  admiration 
without  restraint.  “ You  were  right,  Zoto,”  said  he  with  an  easy  air; 
“ Consuelo  is  the  first  singer  in  Italy,  and  I was  wrong  to  doubt  that 
she  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world.” 

“Your  highness  thought  her  frightful,  however,”  said  Anzoleto, 
maliciously. 

“You  have  doubtless  complained  to  her  of  all  my  folly;  but  I re- 
serve to  myself  the  pleasure  of  obtaining  pardon  by  so  honorable  and 
complete  an  apology,  that  you  shall  not  again  be  able  to  injure  me  in 
recalling  ray  errors.” 

“Injure  you,  Signor  Count! — how. could  I do  so  even  had  I the 
wish?” 

Consuelo  moved.  “Xet  us  not  awaken  her  too  suddenly,”  said  the 
count,  and  clear  this  table,  that  I may  place  on  it  and  read,  her  en- 
gagement. Hold ! ” said  he  when  Anzoleto  had  obeyed  him ; “ cast 
your  eyes  over  this  paper,  while  we  wait  for  hers  to  open.” 

“ An  engagement  before  trial  1 — it  is  magnificent,  my  noble  patron. 
And  she  is  to  appear  at  once,  before  Corilla’s  engagement  has  ex- 
pired ? ” 

“ That  is  nothing ; there  is  some  trifling  debt  of  a thousand  sequin* 
or  so  due  her,  which  we  shall  pay  off.” 

H But  what  if  Corilla  should  rebel ! ” 

“We  will  confine  her  under  .the  leads.”  ’ 

“ Tore  Heaven ! nothing  stops  your  highness.” 

Yes,  Zoto  ” replied  the  count  coldly;  “ thus  it  is:  what  we  desire 
we  do,  towards  one  and  all.” 

“ And  the  conditions  are  the  same  as  for  Corilla — the  same  condi- 
tions for  a debutante  without  name  or  reputation,  as  for  an  illustrious 
performer  adored  by  the  public. 

“ The  new  singer  shall  have  even  more;  and  if  the  conditions 
granted  her  predecessor  do  not  satisfy  her,  she  has  only  to  say  a word 
and  they  shall  be  doubled,  Everything  depends  upon  herself,”  con- 
tinued he,  raising  his  voice  a little,  as  he  perceived  that  Consuelo  was 
awake:  “ her  fate  is  in  her  own  hands.” 

Copsuelo  had  heard  a'd  this  partially,  through  her  sleep.  When  she 
ha d rubbed  her  eyes,  and  assured  herself  that  she  was  not  dreamiD^ 


ttonairiLd. 


n 

she  slid  down  into  the  space  between  the  bed  and  the  wall,  without 
considering  the  strangeness  of  her  position,  and  after  arranging  her 
hair,  came  forward  with  ingenuous  confidence  to  join  in  the  conver- 
sation. 

u Signor  Count,”  said  she,  “ you  are  only  too  good ; but  I am  not 
so'presumptuous  as  to  avail  myself  of  your  offer.  I will  not  sign  this 
engagement  until  I have  made  a trial  of  my  powers  before  the  public. 
It  would  not  be  delicate  on  my  part.  I might  not  please — I might  in- 
cur a fiasco  and  be  hissed.  Even  should  I be  hoarse  or  unprepared, 
or  even  ugly  that  day,  your  word  would  still  be  pledged — you  would 
be  too  proud  to  take  it  back,  and  I to  avail  myself  of’ it.” 

“ Ugly  on  that  day,  Consuelo — you  ugly ! ” said  the  count,  looking 
at  her  with  burning  glances ; “ come  now,”  he  added,  taking  her  by 
the  hand  and  leading  her  to  the  mirror,  “ look  at  yourself  there.  If 
you  are  adorable  in  this  costume,  what  would  you  be,  covered  with 
diamonds  and  radiant  with  triumph  ? ” 

The  count’s  impertinence  made  Anzoleto  gnash  his  teeth ; but  the 
calm  indifference  with  which  Consuelo  received  his  compliments  re- 
strained his  impatience.  “ Sir,”  said  she,  pushing  back  the  fragment 
of  a lookingrglass  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  “ do  not  break  my  mir- 
ror; it  is  the  only  one  I ever  had,  and  it  has  never  deceived  me.— 
Ugly  or  pretty,  I refuse  your  liberality ; and  I may  tell  you  frankly 
that  I shall  not  appear  unless  my  betrothed  be  similarly  engaged.  I 
will  have  no  other  theatre  nor  any  other  public  except  his ; we  cannot 
be  separate,  being  engaged  to  each  other.” 

This  abrupt  declaration  took  the  count  a little  unawares,  but  he  soon 
regained  his  equanimity. 

44  You  are  right,  Consuelo,”  replied  he;  a I never  intended  to  sepa- 
arate  you : Zoto  shall  appear  with  yourself.  At  the  same  time  I can- 
not conceal  from  you  that  his  talents,  although  remarkable,  are  much 
inferior  to  yours.” 

* I do  not  believe  it,  my  lord,”  said  Consuelo,  blushing  as  if  she  had 
received  a personal  insult. 

“ I hear  that  he  is  your  pupil,  much  more  than  that  of  the. maestro 
I gave  him.  Do  not  deny  it,  beautiful  Consuelo.  On  learning  your 
‘ntimacy,  Porpora  exclaimed,  Tam  no  longer  astonished  at  certain 
qualities  he  possesses,  which  I was  unable  to  reconcile  with  his  de- 
fects.’ ” 

u Thanks  to  the  Signor  Professor,”  said  Anzoleto,  with  a forced 
smile. 

“He  will  change  his  mind,”  said  Consuelo,  gaily — u besides,  the 
public  will  ©ontradict  this  dear  good  master.” 

“ The  dear  good  master  is  the  best  judge  of  music  in  the  world,”  re- 
plied the  count.  “ Anzoleto  will  do  well  to  profit  by  your  lessons; 
but  we  cannot  arrange  the  terms  of  his  agreement  before  we  have  as- 
certained the  sentiments  of  the  public.  Let  him  make  his  appear- 
ance, and  we  shall  settle  with  him  according  to  justice  and  our  own 
favorable  feeling  towards  him,  on  which  he  has  every  reason  to  rely.” 

“ Then  let  us  both  make  our  appearance,”  replied  Consuelo : u but 
no  signature — no  agreement  before  trial ; on  that  I am  determined.” 
u Y;u  are  not  satisfied  with  my  terms,  Consuelo ; very  well,  then 
you  shall  dictate  them  yourself ; here  is  the  pen — add — take  away— • 
my  signature  is  below.” 

Consuelo  seized  the  pen ; Anzoleto  turned  pale,  and  the  count,  who 
©beerved  him,  chewed  with  pleasure  the  end  of  the  ruffle  which  he 


7 


CONSUELO. 


14 

twisted  In  his  finders.  Consuelo  erased  the  contract,  and  wrote  njMa 
the  portion  remaining  above  the  signature  of  the  count — 

“ Anzoleto  and  Consuelo  severally  agree  to  such  conditions  as  it 
shall  please  Count  Zustiniani  to  impose,  after  their  first  appearance 
which  shall  take  place  during  the  ensuing  month  at  the  theatre  of 
San  Samuel.”  w 

She  signed  rapidly,  and  passed  the  pen  to  her  lover. 

“ Sign  without  looking,”  said  she.  “ You  can  do  no  less  to  prove 
your  gratitude,  and  your  confidence  in  your  benefactor.” 

Anzoleto  had  glanced  over  it  in  a twinkling ; he  signed — it  was  but 
the  work  of  a moment. — The  count  read  over  his  shoulder. 

“ Consuelo,”  said  he,  “ you  are  a strange  girl — in  truth  an  admirable 
creature.  You  will  both  dine  with  me,”  he  continued,  tearing  the 
contract  and  offering  his  hand  to  Consuelo,  who  accepted  it,  but  at  the 
same  time  requested  him  to  wait  with  Anzoleto  in  his  gondola  while 
»he  should  arrange  her  toilet. 

“ Decidedly,”  said  she  to  herself  when  alone,  “ I shall  be  able  to  buy 
a new  marriage  robe.”  She  then  arranged  her  muslin  dress,  settled 
her  hair,  and  flew  down  the  stairs  singing  with  a voice  full  of  fresh- 
ness and  vigor.  The  count,  with  excess  of  courtesy,  had  waited  for 
her  with  Anzoleto  at  the  foot  of  the  stair.  She  believed  him  furtner 
off,  and  almost  fell  into  his  arms,  but  suddenly  disengaging 1 hers  jlf, 
she  took  his  hand  and  carried  it  to  her  lips,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
country,  with  the*  respect  of  an  inferior  who  does  not  wish  to  infringe 
upon  the  distinctions  of  rank ; then  turning  she  clasped  her  betrothed, 
and  bounded  with  joyous  steps  towards  the  gondola,  without  await- 
ing the,  ceremonious  escort  of  her  somewhat  mortified  protector. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

The  count  seeing  that  Consuelo  was  insensible  to  the  stimulus  of 
gain,  tried  to  flatter  her  vanity  by  offering  her  jewels  and  ornaments; 
but  these  she  refused.  Zustiniani  at  first  imagined  that  she  was 
aware  of  his  secret  intentions ; but  he  soon  saw  that  it  was  but  a 
species  of  rustic  pride,  and  that  she  would  receive  no  recompense  un- 
til she  had  earned  it  by  working  for  the  prosperity  of  his  theatre 
He  obliged  her  however  to  accept  a white  satin  dress,  observing  that 
she  could  not  appear  with  propriety  in  her  muslin  robe  in  his  saloon, 
and  adding  that  he  would  consider  it  a favor  if  she  would  abandon 
the  attire  of  the  people.  She  submitted  her  fine  figure  to  the  fashion- 
able milliners,  who  made  the  very  most  of  it,  and  did  not  spare  the 
material.  Thus  transformed  in  two  days  into  a woman  of  the  world, 
and  induced  to  accept  a necklace  of  fine  pearls  which  the  count  pre- 
sented to  her  as  payment  for  the  evening  when  she  sang  before  him 
and  his  friends,  she  was  beautiful,  if  not  according  to  her  own  peculiar 
style  of  beauty,  at  least  as  she  sh  mid  be  admired  by  the  vulgar.  This 
result  however  was  not  perfectly  attained.  At  the  first  glance  Con- 
#uelo  neither  struck  nor  dazzled  anybody;  she  was  always  pale,  and 
Jer  modest,  studious  habits  took  from  her  look  that  brilliant  glance 
which  we  witness  in  the  syes  of  women  whose  only  object  is  to 
shine.  The  basis  of  her  fiiaracter,  as  well  as  the  distinguishing 


CONSUELO. 


75 


peculiarity  of  lier  countenance,  was  a reflective  seriousness.-  -On« 
might  see  her  eat,  and  talk,  and  weary  herself  with  the  trivial  con 
cenis  of  daily  life,  without  even  supposing  that  she  was  pretty;  but 
once  the  smile  of  enjoyment,  so  easily  allied  to  serenity  of  soul,  came 
to  light  up  her  features,  how  charming  she  became  1 And  when  she 
was  further  animated — when  she  interested  herself  seriously  in  the 
business  of  the  piece — when  she  displayed  tenderness,  exaltation  of 
mind,  the  manifestation  of  her  inward  life  and  hidden  power — she 
•hone  resplendent  with  all  the  fire  of  genius  and  love,  she  was 
another  being,  the  audience  were  hurried  away — passion-stricken  as  it 
were — annihilated  at  pleasure — without  her  being  able  to  explain  the 
mystery  of  her  power. 

What  the  count  experienced  for  her  therefore  astonished  and  i 
noyed  him  strapgely.  There  were  in  this  man  of  the  world  artisti 
chords  which  had  never  yet  been  struck,  and  which  she  caused  to  thri 
with  unknown  emotions ; but  this  revelation  could  not  penetrate 
patrician’s  soul  sufficiently  to  enable  him  to  discern  the  impotence  a 
poverty  of  the  means  by  which  he  attempted  to  lead  away  a worn 
so  different  from  those  he  had  hitherto  endeavored  to  corrupt. 

He  took  patience  and  determined  to  try  the  effects  of  emulation 
He  conducted  her  to  his  box  in  the  theatre  that  she  might  witness 
Corilla’s  success,  and  that  ambition  might  be  awakened  in  her ; but 
the  result  was  quite  different  from  that  which  he  expected  from  it. 
Consuelo  left  the  theatre,  cold,  silent,  fatigued,  and  in  no  way  excited 
by  the  noise  and  applause.  Corilla  was  deficient  in  solid  talent,  noble 
sentiment,  and  well-founded  power : and  Consuelo  felt  quite  compe- 
tent to  form  an  opinion  of  this  forced,  factitious  talent,  already  vitiated 
at  its  source  by  selfishness  and  excess.  She  applauded  unconsciously, 
uttered  words  of  formal  approval,  and  disdained  to  put  on  a mask  of 
enthusiasm  for  one  whom  she  could  neither  fear  nor  admire.  The 
count  for  a moment  thought  her  under  the  influence  of  secret  jealousy 
of  the  talents,  or  at  least  of  the  person,  of  the  prima  donna.  “ This 
is  nothing,”  said  he,  “ to  the  triumphs  you  will  achieve  when  you  ap- 
pear before  the  public  as  you  have  already  appeared  before  me.  I 
hope  that  you  are  not  frightened  by  what  you  see.” 

“No,  Signor  Count,”  replied  Consuelo,  smiling;  “the  public  fright- 
ens me  not,  for  I never  think  of  it.  I only  think  of  what  might  be 
realized  in  the  part  which  Corilla  fills  in  so  brilliant  a manner,  but  in 
which  there  are  many  defects  which  she  does  not  perceive.” 

“ Whatl  you  do  not  think  of  the  public?” 

“ No ; I think  of  the  piece,  of  the  intentions  of  the  composer,  of  the 
spirit  of  the  part,  and  of  the  good  qualities  and  defects  of  the  orches- 
tra, from  the  former  of  which  we  are  to  derive  advantage,  while  we 
are  to  conceal  the  latter  by  a louder  intonation  at  certain  parts.  I 
listen  to  the  choruses,  which  are  not  always  satisfactory,  and  require 
a more  strict  direction ; I examine  the  passages  on  which  all  one’s 
strength  is  required,  and  also  those  of  course  where  it  njay  advan- 
tageously be  reserved.  You  will  perceive,  Signor  Count,  that  I have 
many  things  to  think  of  besides  the  public,  who  know  nothing  about 
all  that  I have  mentioned,  and  can  teach  me  noth  ng.” 

This  grave  judgment  and  serious  im  uiry  so  surprised  Zustiniani 
that  he  could  not  utter  a single  question,  and  asked  himself,  with  some 
trepidation,  what  hold  a gallant  like  himself  could  have  on  genius  of 
this  stamp. 

The  appearance  of  the  two  debutants  was  preceded  by  all  flie  usm^ 


76 


OONBUELO. 


Inflated  announcements ; and  this  was  the  source  of  continual  disco* 
alon  and  difference  of  opinion  between  the  count  andPorpora,  Constt- 
elo  and  her  lover.  The  old  master  and  his  pupil  blamed  the  quack 
announcements  and  all  thtse  thousand  unworthy  tricks  which  have 
driven  us  so  far  into  folly  and  bad  faith.  In  Venice  during  those  days 
the  journals  had  not  much  to  say  as  to  public  affairs ; they  did  not 
concern  themselves  with  the  composition  of  the  audience ; they  were 
unaware  of  the  deep  resources  of  public  advertisements,  the  gossip  of 
biographical  announcements,  and  the  powerful  machinery  of  hired  ap- 
plause. There  was  plenty  of  bribing  and  not  a few  cabals,  but  ail 
this  was  concocted  in  coteries,  and  brought  about  through  the  instru- 
mentality of.  the  public,  warmly  attached  to  one  side  or  sincerely  hostile 
to  the  other.  Art  was  not  always  the  moving  spring ; passions  great 
d small,  foreign  alike  to  art  and  talent,  then  as  now,  came  to  do 
tie  in  the  temple ; but  they  were  not  so  skilful  in  concealing  these 
ees  of  discord,  and  in  laying  them  to  the  account  of  pure  love  for 
At  bottom,  indeed,  it  was  the  same  vulgar,  worldly  spirit,  with  t 
rface  less  complicated  by  civilization. 

Zustiniani  managed  these  affairs  more  as  a nobleman  than  the  con- 
ductor of  a theatre.  His  ostentation  was  a more  powerful  impulse 
than  the  avarice  of  ordinary  speculators.  He  prepared  the  public  in 
his  saloons,  and  warmed  up  his  representations  beforehand.  It  is  true 
his  conduct  was  never  cowardly  or  mean,  but  it  bore  the  puerile  stamp 
of  self-love,  a busy  gallantry,  and  the  pointed  gossip  of  good  society. 
He  therefore  proceeded  to  demolish,  piece  by  piece,  with  considerable 
art,  the  edifice  so  lately  raised  by  his  own  hands  to  the  glory  of  Gorilla. 
Everybody  saw  that  he  wanted  to  set  up  in  its  place  the  miracle  of 
talent;  and  as  the  Exclusive  possession  of  this  wonderful  phenomenon 
was  ascribed  to  him,  poor  Consuelo  never  suspected  the  nature  of  his 
intentions  towards  her,  although  all  Venice  knew  that  the  coimt,  dis- 
gusted with  the  conduct  of  Corilla,  was  about  to  introduce  in  her  place 
another  singer;  while  many  added,  “ Grand  mystification  for  the 
public,  and  great  prejudice  to  the  theatre;  for  his  favorite  is  a little 
street  singer,  who  has  nothing  .to,  recommend  her  except  her  fine  voice 
and  tolerable  figure.” 

Hence  arose  fresh  cabals  for  Corilla,  who  went  about  playing  the 
part  of  an  injured  rival,  and  who  implored  her  extensive  circle  of 
adorers  and  their  friends  to  do  justice  to  the  insolent  pretensions  of 
the  zingarella . Hence  also  new  cabals  in  favor  of  Consuelo,  by  a 
numerous  party,  who,  although  differing  widely  on  other  subjects, 
united  In  a wish  to  mortify  Corilla  and  elevate  her  rival  in  her  place. 

As  to  the  veritable  dilettanti  of  music,  they  were  equally  divided 
between  the  opinion  of  the  serious  masters— such  as  Porpora,  Mar- 
cello, and  Jomelli,  who  predicted  with  the  appearance  of  an  excellent 
musician,  the  return  of  the  good  old  usages  and  casts  of  performance 
— and  the  anger  of  second-rate  composers,  whose  compositions  Co- 
rilla had  always  preferred,  and  who  now  saw  themselves  threatened 
with  neglect  in  her  person.  The  orchestra,  dreading  to  set  to  work  on 
scores  which  had  been  long  laid  aside,  and  which  consequently  would 
require  study,  all  those  retainers  of  the  theatre,  who  in  every  thorough 
reform  always  foresaw  an  entire  change  of  the  performers,  even  the 
very  scene-shifters,  the  tirewoman,  and  the  hair-dressers — all  were  in 
movement  for  or  against  the  debutante  at  San  Samuel.  In  point  of 
feet  the  debut  was  much  more  in  everybody’s  thoughts  than  the  new 
administration  or  the  acts  of  the  Doge,  Pietro,  Grimaldi,  who  had  Juif 
then  peaceably  succeeded  his  predecessor,  Luigi  Pisasb 


CONSUELO, 


n 

Consuelo  was  exceedingly  distressed  at  these  delays  and  the  petty 
quarrels  connected  with  her  new  career;  she  would  have  wished  to 
come  out  at  once,  without  any  other  preparation  than  what  concerned 
herself  and  the  study  of  the  new  piece.  She  understood  nothing  of 
those  endless  intrigues  which  seemed  to  her  more  dangerous  than 
useful,  and  which  she  felt  she  could  very  well  dispense  with.  But  the 
count,  who  saw  more  clearly  into  the  secrets  of  his  profession,  and 
who  wished  to  be  envied  his  imaginary  happiness,  spared  nothing  to 
secure  partisans,  and  made  her  come  every  day  to  his  palace  to  be 
presented  to  all  the  aristocracy  of  Venice.  Consuelo’s  modesty  and 
reluctance  ill  supported  his  designs  • but  he  induced  her  to  sing,  and 
the  victory  was  at  once  decisive — brilliant — incontestible. 

Anzoleto  was  far  from  sharing  the  repugnance  of  his  betrothed  for 
these  secondary  means.  His  success  was  by  no  means  so  certain  at 
hers.  In  the  first  place,  the  count  was  not  so  ardent  in  his  favor,  and 
the^tenor  whom  he  was  to  succeed  was  a man  of  talent,  who  would 
not  be  easily  forgotten.  It  is  true  he  also  sang  nightly  at  the  counts 
palace,  and  Consuelo  in  their  duets  brought  him  out  admirably;  so 
that,  urged  and  sustained  by  the  magic  of  a genius  superior  to  his 
own,  he  often  attained  great  heights.  He  was  on  these  occasions  both 
encouraged  and  applauded;  but  when  the  first  surprise  excited  by 
his  fine  voice  was  over,  more  especially  when  Consuelo  had  revealed 
herself,  his  deficiency  was  apparent,  and  frightened  even  himself, 
This  was  the  time  to  work  with  renewed  vigor;  but  in  vain  Consuelo 
exhorted  him,  and  appointed  him  to  meet  her  each  morning  at  the 
Corte  Minelli— where  she  persisted  in  remaining,  spite  of  the  remon- 
strances of  the  count,  who  wished  to  establish  her  more  suitably 
Anzoleto  had  so  much  to  do— so  many  visits,  engagements,  and  in* 
trigues  on  hand — such  distracting  anxieties  to  occupy  his  mind — that 
neither  time  nor  courage  was  left  for  study. 

In  the  midst  of  these  perplexities,  seeing  that  the  greatest  opposl* 
tion  would  be  given  by  Corilla,  and  also  that  the  count  no  longer 
gave  himself  any  trouble  about  her,  Anzoleto  resolved  to  visit  her 
himself  in  order  to  deprecate  her  hostility.  As  may  easily  be  con- 
ceived, she  had  pretended  to  take  the  matter  very  lightly,  and  treated 
the  neglect  and  contempt  of  Zustiniani  with  philosophical  unconcern. 
She  mentioned  and  boasted  everywhere  that  she  had  received  brilliant 
offers  from  the  Italian  opera  at  Paris,  and  calculating  on  the^  reverse 
which  she  thought  awaited  her  arrival,  laughed  outright  at  the  illusions 
of  the  count,  and  his  party.  Anzoleto  thought  that  with  prudence 
and  by  employing  a little  deceit,  he  might  disarm  this  formidable  ene- 
my ; and  having  perfumed  and  adorned  himself,  he  waited  on  her  at 
one  in  the  afternoon — an  hour  when  the  siesta  renders  visits  unusual 
and  the  palaces  silent. 


CHAPTER  XYL 

Anzoleto  found  Co  ilia  alone  in  a charming  boudoir,  reclining  on 
a couch  In  a becoming  undress ; but  the  alterations  in  her  features  by 
daylight  led  him  to  suspect  that  her  security  with  regard  to  Consuelo 
was  not  so  great  as  her  faithful  partisans  asserted.  Nevertheless,  she 


COWSUIIO, 


n 

received  him  with  an  easy  air,  and  tapping  him  playfully  on  the  cheeky 
while  she  made  a sign  to  her  servant  to  withdraw,  exclaimed— “ Ah* 
wicked  one,  is  it  you?— are  you  come  with  your  tales,  or  would  you 
make  me  believe  you  are  no  dealer  in  flourishes,  nor  the  most  intri- 
guing of  all  the  postulants  for  fame  ? You  were  somewhat  conceited 
my  handsome  friend,  if  you  supposed  that  I should  be  disheartened 
by  your  sudden  flight  after  so  many  tender  declarations;  and  still 
more  conceited  was  it  to  suppose  that  you  were  wanted,  for  in  four- 
and-twenfcy  hours  I had  forgotten  that  such  a person  existed.” 

“ Four-and-t wen ty  hours! — that  is  a long  time,”  replied  Anzoleto, 
kissing  the  plump  and  rounded  arm  of  Corilla.  “ Ah,  if  1 believed 
that,  I should  be  proud  indeed ; but  I know  that  if  I was  so  far  de- 
ceived as  to  believe  you  when  you  said — ” 

“What  I said,  I advise  you  to  forget  also.  Had  you  called,  you 
would  have  found  my  door  shut  against  you.  What  assurance  to 
come  to-day ! ” 

“ Is  it  not  good  taste  to  leave  those  who  are  in  favor,  and  to  lay 
one’s  heart  and  devotion  at  the  feet  of  her  who—*” 

“Well,  finish — to  her  who  is  in  disgrace.  It  is  most  generous  and 
humane  on  your  part,  most  illustrious  friend  I ” And  Corilla  fell  back 
upon  the  satin  pillow  with  a burst  of  shrill  and  forced  laughter. 

Although  the  disgraced  prima  donna  was  no  longer  in  her  early 
freshness— although  the  mid-day  sun  was  not  much  in  her  favor,  and 
although  vexation  had  somewhat  taken  from  the  effect  of  her  full- 
formed  features — Anzoleto,  who  had  never  been  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  a woman  so  brilliant  and  so  renowned,  felt  himself  moved  in  re- 
gions of  the  soul  to  which  Consuelo  had  never  descended,  and  whence 
he  had  voluntarily  banished  her  pure  image.  He  therefore  palliated 
the  raillery  of  Corilla  by  a profession  of  love  which  he  had  only  inten- 
ded to  feign,  but  which  he  now  actually  began  to  experience.  I say 
love,  for  want  of  a better  word,  for  it  were  to  profane  the  name  to 
apply  it  to  the  attraction  awakened  by  such  women  as  Corilla. 
When  she  saw  the  young  tenor  really  moved,  she  grew  milder,  and 
addressed  him  after  a more  amiable  fashion. 

“ I confess,”  said  she,  “ you  selected  me  for  a whole  evening,  but  I 
did  not  altogether  esteem  you.  I know  you  are  ambitious,  and  conse- 
quently false,  and  ready  for  every  treason.  I dare  not  trust  to  you. 
You  pretended  to  be  jealous  on  a certain  night  in  my  gondola,  and 
took  upon  you  the  airs  of  a despot.  That  might  have  disenchanted 
me  with  the  inspired  gallantries  of  our  patricians,  but  you  deceived 
me,  ungrateful  one ! you  were  engaged  to  another,  and  are  going  to 
marry — whom? — oh,  I know  very  well — my  rival,  my  enemy,  the 
debutante,  the  new  protegee  of  Zustiniani.  Shame  upon  us  two — 
upon  us  three — upon  us  all  1 ” added  she,  growing  animated  in  spite 
of  herself,  and  withdrawing  her  hand  from  Anzoleto. 

“ Cruel  creature ! ” he  exclaimed,  trying  to  regain  her  fair  fingers, 
' you  ought  to  understand  what  passed  in  my  heart  when  I first  saw 
you,  and  not  busy  yourself  with  what  occupied  me  before  that  terri- 
ble moment.  As  to  what  happened  since,  can  you  not  guess  it,  and 
is  there  any  necessity  to  recur  to  the  subject?  ” 

“lam  not  to  be  put  off  with  half  words  and  reservations ; do  yon 
love  the  zincarella , and  are  you  about  to  marry  her?” 

“ And  if  I loved  her,  how  does  it  happen  I did  not  marry  her  bo* 
fore?” 

* Perhaps  the  count  would  have  opposed  it  Every  one  knows  what 


eosacBta.  "ib 

h#  wants  now.  They  even  say  that  he  has  ground  for  lmp&tieD/W| 
and  the  little  one  still  more  so.” 

The  color  mounted  to  Anzoleto’s  face  when  he  heard  language  of 
this  sort  applied  to  the  being  whom  he  venerated  above  all  others. 

“ Ah,  you  are  angry  at  my  supposition,”  said  Corilla ; “ it  is  wed — 
that  is  what  I wished  to  find  out.  You  love  her.  When  will  the 
marriage  take  place  ? ” 

“ For  the  love  of  Heaven,  madam,  let  us  speak  of  nobody  except 
ourselves.” 

“ Agreed,”  replied  Corlla.  “ So,  my  former  lover  and  your  future 
spouse ” 

Anzoleto  was  enraged ; he  rose  to  go  away ; but  what  was  he  to 
do  ? Should  he  enrage  still  more  the  woman  whom  he  had  come  to 
pacify  ? He  remained  undecided,  dreadfully  humiliated,  and  unhappy 
at  the  part  he  had  imposed  upon  himself. 

Corilla  eagerly  desired  to  win  his  affections,  not  because  she  loved 
him,  but  because  she  wished  to  be  revenged  on  Consuelo,  whom  she 
had  abused  without  being  certain  that  her  insinuations  were  well 
founded. 

“ You  see,”  said  she,  arresting  him  on  the  threshold  with  a pene- 
trating look,  “ that  I have  reason  to  doubt  you ; for  at  this  moment 
you  are  deceiving  some  one — either  her  or  myself.” 

“ Neither  one  nor  the  other,”  replied  he,  endeavoring  to  justify 
himself  in  his  own  eyes.  “ I am  not  her  lover,  and  I never  was  so. 
I am  not  in  love  with  her,  for  I am  not  jealous  of  the  count.” 

“ Oh ! indeed  ? You  are  jealous,  even  to  the  point  of  denying  it* 
and  you  come  here  to  cure  yourself  or  to  distract  your  attention  from 
a subject  so  unpleasant.  Many  thanks  1 ” 

“ I am  not  jealous,  I repeat ; and  to  prove  that  it  is  not  mortificar- 
tion  which  makes  me  speak,  I tell  you  that  the  count  is  no  more  her 
lover  than  I am ; that  she  is  virtuous,  child  as  she  is,  and  that  the 
only  one  guilty  towards  you  is  Count  Zustiniani.” 

“ So,  so ; then  I may  hiss  the  zingcirella  without  afflicting  you.  You 
shall  be  in  my  box  on  the  night  of  her  debut,  and  you  shall  hiss  her. 
Your  obedience  shall  be  the  price  of  my  favor — take  me  at  my  word, 
or  I draw  back.” 

“ Alas ! madam,  you  wish  to  prevent  me  appearing  myself,  for  you 
know  I am  to  do  so  at  the  same  time  as  Consuelo.  If  you  hiss  her,  I 
shall  fall  a victim  to  your  wrath,  because  I shall  sing  with  her.  And 
what  have  I done,  wretch  that  I am,  to  displease  you  ? Alas ! I had 
a delicious  but  fatal  dream.  I thought  for  a whole  evening  that  you 
took  an  interest  in  me,  and  that  I should  grow  great  under  your  pro- 
tection. Now  I am  the  object  of  your  hatred  and  anger — I,  who 
have  so  loved  and  respected  you  as  to  fly  you!  Very  well,  madam; 
satiate  your  enmity.  Overthrow  me — ruin  me — close  my  career.  So 
that  you  can  here  tell  me,  in  secret,  that  I am  not  hateful  to  you,  shall 
I accept  the  public  marks  of  your  anger.” 

“ Serpent ! ” exclaimed  Corilla,  “ where  have  you  imbibed  the* 
poison  which  your  tongue  and  your  eyes  distil  ? — Much  would  I give 
to  know,  to  comprehend  you,  for  you  are  the  most  amiable  of  lover* 
and  the  most  dangerous  of  enemies.” 

Ik“  I your  enemy  I how  could  I be  so,  even  were  I not  subdued  by 
your  charms  ? Have  you  enemies  then,  divine  Corilla  t Can  you  have 
them  in  Venice,  where  you  are  known,  and  where  you  rule  over  no 
divided  empire?  A lover  quarrel  throws  the  count  into  despair:  ho 


80 


eoKiuiio. 


would  remove  you,  since  thereby  he  would  cease  to  suffer.  He  meets 
a litte  creature  in  his  path  who  appears  to  display  resources,  and  who 
only  asks  to  be  heard.  Is  this  a crime  on  the  part  of  a poor  child 
who  only  hears  your  name  with  terror,  and  who  never  utters  it  her- 
self without  respect  ? And  you  ascribe  to  this  little  one  insolent  pre- 
tensions which  she  does  not  entertain.  The  efforts  of  the  count  to 
recommend  her  to  his  friends,  the  kindness  of  these  friends,  who  ex- 
aggerate her  deserts,  the  bitterness  of  yours,  who  spread  calumnies 
which  serve  but  to  annoy  and  vex  you,  whilst  they  should  but  calm 
your  soul  in  picturing  to  you  your  glory  unassailable,  and  your  rival 
all  trembling— these  are  the  prejudices  which  I discover  in  you,  and 
at  which  I am  so  confounded  that  I hardly  know  how  to  assail  them.,, 

“ You  know  but  too  well,  with  that  flattering  tongue  of  yours,” 
said  Gorilla,  looking  at  him  with  tenderness  mixed  with  distrust ; “ I 
hear  the  honied  words  which  reason  bids  me  disclaim.  I wager  that 
this  Consuelo  is  divinely  beautiful,  whatever  may  have  been  said  to 
the  contrary,  and  that  she  has  merits,  though  opposed  to  mine,  since 
the  severe  Porpora  has  proclaimed  them  ” 

“ You  know  Porpora;  you  know  all  his  crotchety  ideas.  An  ene- 
my of  all  originality  in  others,  and  of  every  innovation  in  the  art  of 
song,  he  declares  a little  pupil,  who  listens  to  his  dotage,  submissive 
to  his  pedantry,  and  who  runs  over  the  scale  decently,  to  be  preferable 
to  all  the  wonders  which  the  public  adores.  How  long  have  you  tor- 
mented yourself  about  this  crazy  old  fool  ? ” 

“ Has  she  no  talent,  then  ? ” 

“ She  has  a good  voice,  and  sings  church  music  fairly,  but  she  can 
know  nothing  about  the  stage;  and  as  to  the  power  of  displaying 
what  talent  she  has,  she  is  so  overcome  with  alarm,  that  there  is 
much  reason  to  fear  that  she  will  lose  what  little  Heaven  has  given 
her.” 

“ Afraid !— what,  she  ? I have  heard  say,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
she  is  endowed  with  a fair  stock  of  impudence  ? ” 

“ Ah,  the  poor  girl  1 Alas  I some  one  must  have  a great  spite  at 
her.  You  shall  hear  her,  divine  Corilla,  and  you  will  be  touched  with 
sympathising  pity,  and  will  applaud  her  rather  than  have  her  hissed, 
as  you  said  for  her  just  now.” 

“ Either  you  are  cheating  me,  or  my  friends  have  cheated  strangely 
concerning  her.”  , 

“ They  have  cheated  themselves.  In  their  absurd  and  useless  ardor 
for  you  they  have  got  frightened  at  seeing  a rival  raised  up  to  you. 
Frightened  at  a mere  child  I — and  frightened  for  you ! Ah,  how  little 
can  they  know  you!  Oh,  were  I your  permitted  friend,  I should 
know  better  what  you  are,  than  to  think  that  I was  doing  you  aught 
but  injury  in  holding  up  any  rivalry  as  a fear  to  you,  were  it  that  of  a 
Faustina  or  a Molteni.” 

“ Don’t  imagine  that  I have  been  frightened.  I am  neither  enviou* 
nor  ill-natured,  and  I should  feel  no  regret  at  the  success  of  any  one 
who  had  never  injured  my  own.  But  when  I have  cause  to  believe 
that  people  are  injuring  and  braving  me,  then  indeed — ” 

“Will  you  let  me  bring  little  Consuelo  to  your  feet?  Had  she 
dared  it,  she  would  have  come  to  ask  your  aid  and  advice.  But  she 
is  a mere  shy  child.  And  you,  too.  have  been  calumniated  to  her. 
8he  has  been  told  that  you  are  cruel,  revengeful  and  bent  on  causing 
her  fali” 

“ She  has  been  told  so?  Ah,  then  I understand  what  brought  you 
hither.” 


comma. 


81 


* You  understand  nothing  of  the  sorkmadam.  For  I did  not  be- 
lieve at  all,  and  never  shall  believe  it.  You  have  not  an  idea  what 
brought  me." 

And  as  he  spoke,  Anzoleto  turned  his  sparkling  eyes  upon  Corilla, 
and  bent  his  knee  before  her  with  the  deepest  show  of  reverence  and 
iove. 

Corilla  was  destitute  neither  of  acuteness  nor  of  ill-nature ; but  as 
happens  to  women  excessively  taken  with  themselves,  vanity  sealed 
her  eyes  and  precipitated  her  into  the  clumsy  trap. 

She  thought  she  had  nothing  to  apprehend  as  regarded  Anzoletc’s 
sentiments  for  the  debutante.  When  he  justified  himself,  and  swore 
by  all  the  gods  that  he  had  never  loved  this  young  girl,  save  as  a 
brother  should  love,  he  told  the  truth,  and  there  was  so  much  confi- 
dence in  his  manner  that  Corilla’s  jealousy  was  overcome.  At  length 
the  great  day  approached,  and  the  cabal  was  annihilated.  Corilla,  on 
her  part,  thenceforth  went  on  in  a different  direction,  fully  persuaded 
that  the  timid  and  inexperienced  Consuelo  would  not  succeed,  and 
that  Anzoleto  would  owe  her  an  infinite  obligation  for  having  con- 
tributed nothing  to  her  downfall.  Besides,  he  had  the  address  to  em 
broil  her  with  her  firmest  champions,  pretending  to  be  jealous,  and 
obliging  her  to  dismiss  them  rather  rudely. 

Whilst  he  thus  labored  in  secret  to  blast  the  hopes  of  a woman 
whom  he  pretended  to  love,  the  cunning  Venetian  played  anothei 
game  with  the  count  and  Consuelo.  He  boasted  to  them  of  having, 
disarmed  this  most  formidable  enemy  by  dexterous  management,  in- 
terested visits,  and  bold  falsehoods.  The  count,  frivolous  and  some- 
what of  a gossip,  was  extremely  amused  by  the  stories  of  his  protege. 
His  self-love  was  flattered  at  the  regret  which  Corilla  was  said  to  ex- 
perience on  account  of  their  quarrel,  and  he  urged  on  this  young  man, 
with  the  levity  which  one  witnesses  in  affairs  of  love  and  gallantry, 
to  the  commission  of  cowardly  perfidy.  Consuelo  was  astonished  and 
distressed.  “ You  would  do  better,”  said  she,  u to  exercise  your  voice 
and  study  your  part.  You  think  you  have  done  much  in  propitiating 
the  enemy,  but  a single  false  note,  a movement  badly  expressed,  would 
do  more  against  you  with  the  impartial  public  than  the  silence  of  the 
~ envious.  It  is  of  this  public  that  you  should  think,  and  1 see  with 
pain  that  you  are  thinking  nothing  about  it.” 

“ Be  calm,  little  Consuelo,”  said  he ; “ your  error  is  to  believe  a pub- 
lic at  once  impartial  and  enlightened.  Those  best  acquainted  with 
the  matter  are  hardly  ever  in  earnest,  and  those  who  are  in  earnest 
know  so  little  about  it,  that  it  only  requires  boldness  to  dazzle  and 
lead  them  away.” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

In  the  midst  of  the  anxieties  awakened  by  the  desire  of  success, 
and  by  the  ardor  of  Corilla,  the  jealousy  of  Anzoleto  with  regard  to 
the  count  slumbered.  Happily,  Consuelo  did  not  need  a more  watch- 
ful or  more  moral  protector.  Secure  in  innocence  she  avoided  the 
advances  of  Zustiniani,  and  kept  him  at  a distance  precisely  by  car- 
ing nothing  about  it.  At  the  end  of  a fortnight  this  Venetian  liber- 
tine acknowledged  that  she  had  none  of  those  worldly  passions  which 


82 


OOUBtlLO. 


led  to  corruption,  .hough  he  spared  no  pains  to  make  them  spring  tzp, 
But  even  in  this  respect  he  had  adva  iced  no  further  than  the  first 
day,  and  he  feared  to  ruin  his  hopes  by  pressing  them  too  openly. 
Had  Anzoleto  annoyed  him  by  keeping  watch,  anger  might  have 
caused  him  to  precipitate  matters;  but  Anzoleto  left  him  at  perfect 
liberty.  Consuelo  distrusted  nothing,  and  he  only  tried  to  make  him- 
self agreeable,  hoping  in  time  to  become  necessary  to  her.  There 
was  no  sort  of  delicate  attentions,  or  refined  gallantries,  that  he 
omitted.  Consuelo  placed  them  all  to  the  account  of  the  liberal  and 
elegant  manners  of  his  class,  united  with  a love  for  art  and  a natural 
goodness  of  disposition.  She  displayed  towards  him  an  unfeigned 
regard,  a sacred  gratitude,  while  he,  happy  and  yet  dissatisfied  with 
this  pure-hearted  unreserve,  began  to  grow  uneasy  at  the  sentiment 
which  he  inspired  until  such  period  as  he  might  wish  to  break  the 
ice. 

While  he  gave  himself  up  with  fear,  and  yet  not  without  satisfkc- 
tion,  to  this  new  feeling — consoling  himself  a little  for  his  want  of 
success  by  the  opinion  which  all  Venice  entertained  of  his  triumph 
— Corilla  experienced  the  same  transformation  in  herself.  She  loved 
with  ardor,  if  not  with  devotion;  and  her  irritable  and  imperious 
soul  bent  beneath  the  yoke  of  her  young  Adonis.  It  was  truly  the 
queen  of  beauty  in  love  with  the  beautiful  hunter,  and  for  the  first 
time  humble  and  timid  before  the  mortal  of  her  choice.  She  affected 
with  a sort  of  delight,  virtues  which  she  did  not  possess.  So  true  it 
ts  that  the  extinction  of  self-idolatry  in  favor  of  another,  tends  to 
raise  and  ennoble,  were  it  but  for  an  instant,  hearts  the  least  suscep- 
tible of  pure  emotions. 

The  emotion  which  she  experienced  reacted  on  her  talents,  and  it  - 
was  remarked  at  the  theatre  that  she  performed  pathetic  parts  more 
naturally  and  with  greater  sensibility.  But  as  her  character  and  the 
essence  of  her  nature  were  thus  as  it  seemed  inverted ; as  it  required 
a sort  of  internal  convulsion  to  effect  this  change,  her  bodily  strength 
gave  way  in  the  combat,  and  each  day  they  observed — some  with  ma- 
licious joy,  others  with  serious  alarm — the  failure  of  her  powers.  Her 
brilliant  execution  was  impeded  by  shortness  of  breath  and  false  in- 
tonations. The  annoyance  and  terror  which  she  experienced,  weak- 
ened her  still  further,  and  at  the  representation  which  took  place  pre- 
vious to  the  debut  of  Consuelo,  she  sang  so  false,  and  failed  in  so 
many  brilliant  passages,  that  her  friends  applauded  faintly,  and  were 
toon  reduced  to  silence  and  consternation  by  the  murmurs  of  her  op- 
ponents. 

At  length  the  great  day  arrived:  the  house  was  filled  to  suffocation. 
Corilla,  attired  in  black,  pale,  agitated,  more  dead  than  alive,  divided 
between  the  fear  of  seeing  her  lover  condemned  and  her  rival  tri 
umph,  was  seated  in  the  recess  of  her  little  box  in  the  theatre.  Crowds 
of  the  aristocracy  and  beauty  ofV enice,  tier  above  tier,  made  a brilliant 
display.  The  fops  were  crowded  behind  the  scenes,  and  even  in  the  front 
of  the  stage.  The  lady  of  the  Doge  took  her  place  along  with  the  great 
dignitaries  of  the  republic.  Porpora  directed  the  orchestra  in  person : 
and  Count  Zust;  niani  waited  at  the  door  of  Consuelo’s  apartment  till 
•he  had  conclu  led  her  toilet,  while  Anzoleto,  dressed  as  an  antique 
warrior,  with  ail  the  absurd  and  lavish  ornaments  of  the  age,  retired 
behind  the  scenes  to  sw&llcw  a draught  of  Cyprus  wino,  in  order  to 
restore  his  courage. 

The  opera  was  neither  of  the  classic  period  nor  yet  the  work  of  tm 


CON8UELO, 


88 


Innovator.  It  was  the  unknown  production  of  a stranger.  To  escape 
the  cabals  which  his  own  name  or  that  of  any  other  celebrated  person 
would  have  caused,  Porpora,  above  all  things  anxious  for  the  success 
of  his  pupil,  had  brought  forward  Ipermnestra , the  lyrical  production 
of  a young  German,  who  had  enemies  neither  in  Italy  nor  elsewhere, 
and  who  was  styled  simply  Christopher  Gluck. 

When  Anzoleto  appeared  on  the  stage  a murmur  of  admiration 
burst  forth.  The  tenor  to  whom  he  succeeded — an  admirable  singer, 
who  had  had  the  imprudence  to  continue  on  the  boards  till  his  voice 
became  thin  and  age  had  changed  his  looks — was  little  regretted  by 
an  ungrateful  public ; and  the  fair  sex,  who  listen  ofteuer  with  their 
eyes  than  with  their  ears,  were  delighted  \o  find,  in  the  place  of  a fat, 
elderly  man,  a fine  youth  of  twenty-four,  fresh  as  a rose,  fair  as  Phoo- 
bus,  and  formed  as  if  Phidias  himself  had  been  the  artist— a true  son 
of  the  lagunes,  Bianco  crespo , e grassotto. 

He  was  too  much  agitated  to  sing  his  first  air  well,  but  his  magnifi- 
cent voice,  his  graceful  attitudes,  and  some  happy  turns,  sufficed  to 
propitiate  the  audience  and  satisfy  the  ladies.  The  debutant  had 
great  resources ; he  was  applauded  threefold,  and  twice  brought  back 
before  the  scenes,  according  to  the  custom  of  Italy,  and  of  Venice  in 
particular. 

Success  gave  him  courage,  and,  when  he  reappeared  with  Iperm- 
nestra, he  was  no  longer  afraid.  But  all  the  effect  of  this  scene 
was  for  Consuelo.  They  only  saw,  only  listened  to  her.  They  said 
to  each  other,  “Look  at  her — yes,  it  is  she!”  “Who? — the  Span- 
iard ? ” “ Yes — the  debutante,  Vamante  del  Zustiniani.” 

Consuelo  entered,  self-possessed  and  serious.  Casting  her  eyes 
around,  she  received  the  plaudits  of  the  spectators  with  a propriety 
of  manner  equally  devoid  of  humility  and  coquetry,  and  sang  a re- 
citative with  so  firm  a voice,  with  accents  so  lofty,  and  a self-possession 
so  victorious,  that  cries  of  admiration  from  the  very  first  resounded 
from  every  part  of  the  theatre.  “ Ah ! the  perfidious  creature  has  de- 
ceived me,”  exclaimed  Corilla,  darting  a terrible  look  towards  Anzo- 
leto, who  could  not  resist  raising  his  eyes  to  hers  with  an  ill-disguised 
smile.  She  threw  herself  back  upon  her  seat,  and  burst  into  tears. 

Consuelo  proceeded  a little  further ; while  old  Lotti  was  heard  mut- 
tering with  his  cracked  voice  from  his  corner,  “ Amici  mieif  questo  b 
un  portento  ! ” 

She  sang  a bravura,  and  was  ten  times  interrupted.  They  shouted 
“ Encore ! ” they  recalled  her  to  the  stage  seven  times,  amid  thunders 
of  applause.  At  length  the  furor  of  Venetian  dilettantism  displayed 
itself  in  all  its  ridiculous  and  absurd  excesses.  “ Why  do  they  cry  out 
thus?”  said  Consuelo,  as  she  retired  behind  the  scenes  only  to  be 
brought  back  immediately  by  the  vociferous  applause  of  the  pit 
“ One  would  think  that  they  wished  to  stone  me.” 

From  that  moment  they  paid  but  a secondary  attention  to  Anzole- 
to. They  received  him  very  well  indeed,  because  they  were  in  a 
happy  vein ; but  the  indulgence  with  which  they  passed  over  the  pas- 
sages in  which  he  failed,  without  immediately  applauding  those  in 
which  he  succeeded,  showed  him  very  plainly,  that  however  he  might 
please  the  ladies,  the  noisy  majority  of  males  held  him  cheaply,  and 
reserved  their  tempestuous  applause  for  the  prima  donna.  Not  one 
among  all  those  who  had  come  with  hostile  intentions,  ventured  a 
murmur;  and  in  truth  there  were  not  three  among  them  who  could 
withstand  the  irresistf  >1©  inclination  to  applaud  the  wonder  of  Hbm 
day. 


84 


eOWBUXLO' 


The  piece  had  the  greatest  success,  although  it  was  not  listened  to 
and  nobody  was  occupied  with  the  music  in  itself.  It  was  quite  In 
the  Italian  style— -graceful,  touching,  and  gave  no  indication  of  the 
author  of  Alcestes  and  Orpheus . There  were  not  many  striking 
eeauties  to  astonish  the  audience.  After  the  first  act,  the  German 
jnaestro  was  called  for,  with  Anzoleto,  the  ddbutante,  and  Clorinda, 
who,  thanks  to  the  protection  of  Consuelo,  had  sung  through  the  sec- 
ond part  with  a flat  voice,  and  an  inferior  tone,  but  whose  beautiftil 
arms  propitiated  the  spectators—Rosalba,  whom  she  had  replaced, 
being  very  lean. 

In  the  last  act,  Anzoleto,  who  secretly  watched  Corilla,  and  per- 
ceived her  increasing  agitation,  thought  it  prudent  to  seek  ner 
in  her  box,  in  order  to  avert  any  explosion.  So  soon  as  she  per* 
ceived  him  she  threw  herself  upon  him  like  a tigress,  bestowed  sev- 
eral vigorous  cuffs,  the  least  of  which  was  so  smart  as  to  draw  blood, 
leaving  a mark  that  red  and  white  could  not  immediately  cover.  The 
angry  tenor  settled  matters  by  a thrust  on  the  breast,  which  threw 
the  singer  gasping-into  the  arms  of  her  sister  Rosalba.  “ Wretch! — 
traitor ! ” she  murmured  in  a choking  voice,  “ your  Consuelo  and  you 
shall  perish  by  my  hand ! ” 

“ If  you  make  a step,  a movement,  a single  gesture,  I will  stab  you 
in  the  face  of  Venice,”  replied  Anzoleto,  pale  and  with  clenched 
teeth,  while  his  faithful  knife,  which  he  knew  how  to  use  with  all  the 
dexterity  of  a man  of  the  lagunes,  gleamed  before  her  eyes. 

“He  would  do  as  he  says,”  murmured  the  terrified  Rosalba;  “be 
silent — let  us  leave  this ; we  are  here  in  danger  of  our  lives.” 

Although  this  tragi-comic  scene  had  taken,  place  after  the  manner 
of  the  Venetians,  in  a mysterious  and  rapid  sotto  voce , on  seeing  the 
debutante  pass  quickly  behind  the  scenes  to  regain  his  box,  his  cheek 
hidden  in  his  hand,  they  suspected  some  petty  squabble.  The  hair- 
dresser, who  was  called  to  adjust  the  curls  of  the  Grecian  prince,  and 
to  plaster  up  his  wound,  related  to  the  whole  band  of  choristers  that 
an  amorous  cat  had  sunk  her  claw  into  the  face  of  the  hero.  The 
aforesaid  barber  was  accustomed  to  this  kind  of  wounds,  and  was  no 
new  confidant  of  such  adventures.  The  anecdote  made  the  round  of 
the  stage,  penetrated  no  one  knew  how,  into  the  body  of  the  house, 
found  its  way  into  the  orchestra,  the  boxes,  and  with  some  additions, 
descended  to  the  pit.  They  were  not  yet  aware  of  the  position  of 
Anzoleto  with  regard  to  Corilla ; but  some  had  noticed  his  apparent 
devotion  to  Clorinda,  and  the  general  report  was,  that  the  seconda 
donna , jealous  of  the  prima  donna , had  just  blackened  the  eye  and 
broken  three  teeth  of  the  handsomest  of  tenors. 

This  was  sad  news  for  some,  but  an  exquisite  bit  of  scandal  for  the 
majority.  They  wondered  if  the  representation  would  be  put  off,  or 
whether  the  old  tenor  Stefanini,  should  have  to  appear,  roll  in  hand, 
to  finish  the  part.  The  curtain  rose,  and  everything  was  forgotten  on 
seeing  Consuelo  appear,  calm  and  sublime  as  at  the  beginning.  Al- 
though her  part  was  not  extremely  tragical,  she  made  it  so  by  the 
power  of  her  acting  and  the  expression  of  her  voice.  She  called 
forth  tears,  and  when  the  tenor  reappeared,  the  slight  scratch  only 
excited  a smile ; but  this  absurd  incident  prevented  his  success  from 
being  so  brilliant,  and  all  the  glory  >f  the  evening  was  reserved  for 
Consuelo,  who  was  applauded  to  the  last  with  frenzy. 

After  the  play,  they  went  to  sup  at  the  Palace  Zustinlani,  and  An* 
©oUt»  forgot  Corilla,  whom  he  had  shut  in  her  box,  and  who  was 


CONSUELO. 


85 


/breed  to  burst  it  open  in  order  to  leave  it.  In  the  tumult  which  al- 
ways follows  so  successful  a representation,  her  retreat  was  not  no- 
ticed ; but  the  next  day,  this  broken  door  coincided  so  well  with  the 
torn  face  of  Anzoleto,  that  the  love  affair,  hitherto  so  carefully  con- 
cealed. was  made  known. 

Hardly  was  he  seated  at  the  sumptuous  banquet  which  the  count 
gave  in  honor  of  Consuelo,  and  at  which  the  Venetian  dilettanti 
handed  to  the  triumphant  actress  sonnets  and  mandrigals  composed 
the  evening  before,  when  a valet  slipped  under  his  plate  a little  billet 

from  Corilla,  which  he  read  aside,  and  which  was  to  the  following 
effect : — 

u If  you  do  not  come  to  me  this  instant,  I shall  go  to  seek  you 
openly,  were  you  even  at  the  end  of  the  world — were  you  even  at  the 
feet  of  your  Consuelo,  thrice  accursed  1 ” 

Anzoleto  pretended  to  be  seized  with  a fit  of  coughing,  and  retired 
to  write  an  answer  with  a pencil  on  a piece  of  ruled  paper  which  he 
had  tom  in  the  antechamber  of  the  count  from  a music-book : — 

u Come  If  you  will.  My  knife  is  ready,  and  with  it  my  scorn  and 
hatred.” 

The  despot  was  well  aware  that  with  such  a creature  fear  was  the 
only  restraint ; that  threats  were  the  only  expedient  at  the  moment ; 
but  in  spite  of  himself  he  was  gloomy  and  absent  during  the  repast, 
and  as  soon  as  it  was  over  he  hurried  off  to  go  to  Corilla. 

He  found  the  unhappy  girl  in  a truly  pitiable  condition.  Convul- 
sions were  followed  by  torrents  of  tears.  She  was  seated  at  the  win- 
dow, her  hair  dishevelled,  her  eyes  swollen  with  weeping,  and  her 
dress  disordered.  She  sent  away  her  sister  and  maid,  and  in  spite  of 
herself,  a ray  of  joy  overspread  her  features,  at  finding  herself  with 
him  whom  she  had  feared  she  might  never  see  again.  But  Anzoleto 
knew  her  too  well  to  seek  to  comfort  her.  He  knew  that  at  the  first 
appearance  of  pity  or  penitence  he  would  see  her  fury  revive,  and 
seize  upon  revenge.  He  resolved  to  keep  up  the  appearance  of  in- 
flexible harshness ; and  although  he  was  moved  with  her  despair,  he 
overwhelmed  her  with  cruel  reproaches-,  declaring  that  he  was  only 
come  to  bid  her  an  eternal  farewell.  He  suffered  her  to  throw  herself 
at  his  feet,  to  cling  to  his  knees  even  to  the  door,  and  to  implore  his 
pardon  in  the  anguish  of  grief.  When  he  had  thus  subdued  and 
humbled  her,  he  pretended  to  be  somewhat  moved,  and  promising  to 
return  in  the  morning,  he  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XVHL 

Wwar  Anzoleto  awoke  the  following  morning,  he  experienced  a 
reverse  of  the  jealousy  with  which  Count  Zustiniani  had  inspired 
him.  A thousand  opposing  sentiments  divided  his  soul.  First,  that 
other  jealousy  which  the  genius  and  success  of  Consuelo  had  awak- 
ened in  his  bosom.  This  sank  the  deeper  in  his  breast  in  proportion 
M he  measured  the  triumph  of  his  betrothed  with  what  in  his 
ttghtod  ambition  he  was  pleased  to  call  his  downfall.  Again, 


86 


* 8U8I0 


the  mortflcatlon  of  being  supplanted  in  reality,  as  he  was  already 
thought  to  be,  with  her,  now  so  triumphant  and  powerful,  and  or 
whom  the  preceding  evening  he  was  so  pleased  to  believe  himself  the 
•nly  lover.  These  two  feelings  possessed  him  by  turns,  and  he  knew 
not  to  which  to  give  himself  up,  in  order  to  extinguish  the  other. 
He  had  to  choose  between  two  things,  either  to  remove  Consuelo 
from  the  count  and  from  Venice,  and  along  with  her  to  seek  his  for- 
tune elsewhere,  or  to  abandon  her  to  his  rival,  and  take  his  chance 
alone  in  some  distant  country  with  no  drawback  to  his  success.  In 
this  poignant  uncertainty,  in  place  of  endeavoring  to  recover  his 
calmness  with  his  true  friend,  he  returned  to  Corilla  and  plunged 
back  into  the  storm.  She  added  fuel  to  the  flame,  by  showing  him, 
even  in  stronger  colors  than  he  had  imagined  the  preceding  night,  all 
the  disadvantages  cf  nis  position.  “No  person,”  said  she,  “is  a 
prophet  in  his  own  country.  This  is  a bad  place  for  one  who  has 
been  seen  running  about  in  rags,  and  where  every  one  may  say — (and 
God  knows  the  nobles  are  sufficiently  given  to  boast  of  the  protec- 
tion, even  when  it  is  only  imaginary,  which  they  accord  to  artists)— 
1 1 was  his  protector ; I saw  his  hidden  talent ; it  was  I who  recom- 
mended and  gave  him  a preference.,  You  have  lived  too  much  in  pub- 
lic here,  my  poor  Anzoleto.  Your  charming  features  struck  those 
who  knew  not  what  was  in  you.  You  astonished  people  who  have 
seen  you  in  their  gondolas  singing  the  stanzas  of  Tasso,  or  doing  their 
errands  to  gain  the  means  of  support.  The  plain  Consuelo,  leading  a 
retired  life,  appears  here  as  a strange  wonder.  Besides  she  is  a Span- 
iard, and  uses  not  the  Venetian  accent;  and  her  agreeable,  though 
somewhat  singular  pronunciation,  would  please  them,  even  were  it 
detestable.  It  is  something  of  which  their  ears  are  not  tired.  Your 
good  looks  have  contributed  mainly  to  the  slight  success  you  obtained 
in  the  first  act;  but  now  people  are  accustomed  to  you.” 

“ Do  not  forget  to  mention  that  the  handsome  scratch  you  gave  me 
beneath  the  eye,  and  for  which  I ought  never  to  pardon  you,  will jjo 
far  to  lessen  the  last-mentioned  trifling  advantage.” 

“ On  the  contrary,  it  is  a decided  advantage  in  the  eyes  of  women, 
but  frivolous  in  those  of  men.  You  will  reign  in  the  saloons  with 
one  party,  without  the  other  you  would  fall  at  the  theatre.  But  how 
can  you  expect  to  occupy  their  attention,  when  it  is  a woman  who 
disputes  it  with  you — a woman  who  not  only  enthrals  the  serious 
dilettanti,  but  who  intoxicates  by  her  grace  and  the  magic  of  her  sex, 
all  who  are  not  connoisseurs  in  music.  To  struggle  with  me,  how 
much  talent  did  Stefanini,  Savario— all  indeed  who  have  appeared 
with  me  on  the  stage,  require ! ” 

“ In  that  case,  dear  Corilla,  I should  run  as  much  risk  in  appear- 
ing with  you  as  with  Consuelo.  If  I were  inclined  to  follow  you  to 
Trance,  you  have  given  me  fair  warning.” 

These  words  which  escaped  from  Anzoletto  were  as  a ray  of  light  to 
Corilla.  She  saw  that  she  had  hit  the  mark  more  nearly  than  she 
had  supposed,  for  the  thought  of  leaving  Venice  had  already  dawned 
in  the  mind  of  her  lover.  The  instant  she  conceived  the  idea  of  bear- 
ing him  away  with  her,  she  spared  no  pains  to  make  him  relish  the 
project.  She  humbled  herself  as  much  as  she  could,  and  even  had 
the  modesty  to  place  herself  aelow  her  rival.  She  admitted  that  she 
was  not  a great  singer,  nor  yet  sufficiently  beautiful  to  attract  the 
public ; and  as  all  this  was  even  truer  than  she  cared  to  think,  and  a » 
Ansoleto  waa  very  well  aware  of  it,  having  never  been  deceived  aa  te 


C0N8UBLG, 


8T 


tft*  immense  superiority  of  Consuelo,  she  had  little  trouble  In  per* 
•uading  him.  Their  partnership  and  flight  were  almost  determined 
upon  at  this  interview,  and  Anzoleto  thought  seriously  of  it,  although 
be  always  kept  a loop-hole  for  escape  if  necessary. 

Corilla,  seeing  his  uncertainty,  urged  him  to  continue  to  appear,  in 
hopes  of  better  success ; but  quite  sure  that  these  unlucky  trials  would 
disgust  him  altogether  with  Venice  and  with  Consuelo. 

Oh  leaving  his  fair  adviser,  he  went  to  seek  his  only  real  friend, 
Consuelo.  He  felt  an  unconquerable  desire  to  see  her  aga4n.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  begun  and  ended  a day  without  receiving  her 
chaste  kiss  upon  his  brow ; but  as,  after  what  had  passed  with  Corilla, 
he  would  have  blushed  for  his  own  instability,  he  persuaded  himself 
that  he  only  went  to  receive  assurance  of  her  unfaithfulness,  and  to 
undeceive  himself  as  to  his  love  for  her.  “ Doubtless,”  said  he,  “ the 
count  has  taken  advantage  of  my  absence  to  urge  his  suit,  and  who 
can  tell  how  far  he  has  been  successful  ? ” This  idea  caused  a cold 
perspiration  to  stand  upon  his  forehead ; and  the  thought  of  Consu- 
elo’s  perfidy  so  affected  him  that  he  hastened  his  steps,  thinking  to 
find  her  bathed  in  tears.  Then  an  inward  voice,  which  drowned 
every  other,  told  him  that  he  wronged  a being  so  pure  and  noble,  and 
he  slackened  his  pace,  reflecting  on  his  own  odious  conduct,  his  sel- 
fish ambition,  and  the  deceit  and  treachery  with  which  he  had  stored 
his  life  and  conscience,  and  which  must  inevitably  bear  their  bitter 
fruit. 

He  found  Consuelo  in  her  black  dress,  seated  beside  her  table,  pure, 
serene,  and  tranquil,  as  he  had  ever  beheld  her.  She  came  forward 
to  meet  him  with  the  same  affection  as  ever,  and  questioned  him  with 
anxiety,  but  without  distrust  or  reproach,  as  to  the  employment  of 
his  time  during  his  absence. 

“ I have  been  suffering,”  said  he,  with  the  very  deep  despondency 
which  his  inward  humiliation  had  occasioned.  “ I hurt  my  head 
against  a decoration,  and  although  I told  you  it  was  nothing,  it  so 
confused  me  that  I was  obliged  to  leave  the  Palazzo  Zustiniani  last 
night,  lest  I should  faint  and  have  to  keep  my  bed  all  the  morning.” 
“Oh,  Heavens!”  said  Consuelo,  kissing  the  wound  inflicted  by  her 
rival ; “ you  have  suffered,  and  still  suffer.” 

“No,  the  rest  has  done  me  good:  do  not  think  of  it;  but  tell  me 
how  you  managed  to  get  home  all  alone  last  night.” 

“ Alone  ? Oh,  no ; the  count  brought  me  in  his  gondola.” 

“ Ah,  I was  sure  of  it,”  cried  Anzoleto,  in  a constrained  voice. 
“ And  of  course  he  said  a great  many  flattering  things  to  you  in  this 
interview.” 

“ What  could  he  say  that  he  has  not  already  said  a hundred  times? 
He  would  spoil  me  skid  make  me  vain,-  were  I not  on  my  guard 
against  him.  Besides,  we  were  not  alone ; my  good  master  accompa- 
nied me — ah ! my  excellent  friend  and  master.” 

“What  master?  — what  excellent  friend?”  said  Anzoleto,  once 
more  reassured,  and  already  absent  and  thoughtful. 

“ Why,  Porpora,  to  be  sure.  What  are  you  thinking  of?  ” 

“ I am  thinking,  dear  Consuelo,  of  your  triumph  yesterday  evening: 
are  you  not  thinking  of  it  too  ? ” 

“ Less  than  of  yours,  I assure  you.” 

“{Mine ! ah,  do  not  jest,  dear  friend ; mine  was  so  meagre  that  It 
lather  resembled  a downfall.” 

Consuelo  grew  pale  jrith  surprise.  Notwithstanding  her  remark* 


88 


COHICEIO. 


ble  self-possession,  she  had  not  the  necessary  coolness  to  appreciate 
the  different  degrees  of  applause  bestowed  on  herself  and  her  lover. 
There  is  in  this  sort  of  ovation  an  intoxication  which  the  wisest 
artists  cannot  shun,  and  which  deceives  some  so  widely  as  to  induce 
them  to  look  upon  the  support  of  a cabal  as  a public  triumph.  But 
instead  of  exaggerating  the  favor  of  her  audience,  Consuelo,  terrified 
by  so  frightful  a noise,  had  hardly  understood  it,  and  could  not  distin- 
guish the  preference  awarded  to  her  over  Anzoleto.  She  artlessly 
chid  him  for  his  unreasonable  expectations;  and  seeing  that  she 
could  not  persuade  him,  nor  conquer  his  sadness,  she  gently  re- 
proached him  with  being  too  desirous  of  glory,  and  with  attaching  too 
much  value  to  the  favor  of  the  world.  “ I have  always  told  you,”  said 
•he,  4<  that  you  prefer  the  results  of  art  to  art  itself.  When  we  do  our 
best — when  we  feel  that  we  have  done  well— it  seems  to  me  that  a 
little  more  or  less  of  approbation  can  neither  increase  nor  lessen  our 
internal  content.  Hold  in  mind  what  Porpora  said  to  me,  when  I 
first  sang  at  the  Palazzo  Zustiniani:  ‘Whoever  feels  that  he. is  truly 
pervaded  with  the  love  of  his  art  has  no  room  for  fear/  ” 

“ Oh,  your  Porpora  and  you ! ” cried  Anzoleto,  spitefully,  “ it  is  well 
for  you  to  feed  yourselves  on  those  fine  maxims.  Nothing  can  be 
easier  than  to  philosophise  on  the  evils  of  life,  when  we  are  acquain- 
ted only  with  its  advantages.  Porpora,  though  poor,  and  his  authori- 
ty disputed,  has  won  himself  a great  name.  He  has  gathered  laurels 
enough  to  grow  gray  in  peace  beneath  their  shade.  You  who  know 
yourself  invincible,  are  of  course  fearless.  You  spring  at  one  bound 
to  the  highest  step  of  the  ladder,  and  reproach  those  who  are  lame 
that  they  are  dizzy.  It  is  scarce  charitable,  Consuelo,  and  is  horribly 
unjust.  And,  again,  your  argument  applies  not  to  me.  You  say  that 
the  applause  of  the  public  is  not  to  be  heeded  as  long  as  we  have  ou; 
own.  But  suppose  I have  not  the  inward  conscience  of  well-doing? 
And  can  you  not  perceive  that  I am  wofully  out  of  sorts  with  my- 
self? could  you  not  see  that  I was  abominable  ? could  you  not  hear 
that  I sang  pitifully  ? ” 

“ I could  not — for  it  was  not  so.  You  were  nor  greater  nor  less 
than  yourself.  Your  own  emotions  deprived  you  of  almost  all  your 
resources.  That  soon  passed,  and  the  music  which  you  knew  you 
sang  well.” 

“ And  the  music  which  I did  not  know?  ” said  Anzoleto,  fixing  his 
great  black  eyes,  rendered  cavernous  by  weariness  and  vexation,  upon 
her,  “ what  of  that?  ” 

She  heaved  a sigh,  and  held  her  peace  awhile.  Then,  embracing 
him  as  she  spoke, — ■“  The  music  which  you  do  not  know  you  must 
learn.  Had  you  chosen  to  study  seriously  during  the  rehearsals. 
Did  I not  tell  you  so?  But  the  time  for  reproaches  has  gone  by. 
Come  now,  let  us  take  but  two  hours  a day,  and  you  will  see  how 
quickly  we  will  surmount  the  obstacles.” 

“ Can  it  be  dohe  in  a day  ? ” 

“ It  cannot  be  done  under  several  months.” 

“ And  I have  got  to  play  to-morrow ! Am  I to  go  on  appealing 
before  an  audience  which  attends  to  my  defects  more  than  it  does  te 
my  good  qualities  ? ” 

“ It  will  so  m appreciate  your  endeavors. 

* Who  can  say  tha,?  It  may  take  a distaste  for  me." 

* It  has  proved  the  contrary.” 

"Ah!  so  you  think  it  has  treated  me  with  in^ulganea?  9 


* If  you  ask  mo — it  has,  my  dear ; where  you  failed  It  was  kind— 
where  you  made  hits  it  did  you  justice.” 

“ But  in  the  meantime  I shall  get  but  a miserable  engagement* 

“ The  count  is  liberal  U magnificence  in  all  his  dealings,  and  counts 
so  expense.  Moreover,  does  he  not  offer  me  more  than  enough  to 
maintain  us  both  in  opulence  ? ” 

“ That  is  to  say  that  I am  to  live  on  your  success.” 

“ Why  not  ? I lived  long  enough  on  your  favor.” 
u It  is  not  merely  money  of  which  I am  thinking.  Let  him  engage 
me  as  low  as  he  please,  I care  not ; but  he  will  engage  me  for  second 
or  third  parts.” 

“ He  cannot  lay  his  hand  on  any  other  primo  nomo.  He  has  reck- 
oned on  you  long,  arid  thinks  of  none  other  than  you.  Besides,  he  is 
all  on  your  side.  You  said  he  would  oppose  our  marriage.  So  far 
from  it,  he  seems  to  wish  it  to  take  place,  and  often  asks  when  I am 
going  to  ask  him  to  my  wedding.” 

“ Excellent— good,  forsooth ! A thousand  thanks,  Signor  Count  I ” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ Nothing.  On you  were  very  wrong,  for  riot  hindering  me  from 
making  my  debut  before  I had  corrected  these  faults,  which,  it  seems; 
you  knew  better  than  I did  myself  by  better  studies.  For,  I repeat, 
you  know  all  my  faults.” 

“ Have  I ever  failed  in  frankness  with  you  ? Have  I not  often 
warned  you  of  them  ? No ; you  told  me  that  the  public  knew  noth- 
ing about  it,  and  when  I heard  of  the  great  success  you  had  met  with 
at  the  count’s,  the  first  time  you  sung  in  his  palace,  I thought 
that ” 

“ That  the  fashionable  world  knew  no  more  about  it  than  the  vulgar 
world.” 

“ I thought  that  your  brilliant  qualities  had  struck  them  more  for- 
cibly than  your  weak  points,  and,  as  I think,  such  has  been  the  case 
with  both  parties.” 

“ In  fact  she  is  quite  right,”  thought  Anzoleto  to  himself.  “ If  I 
could  but  defer  my  debut ; but  it  would  be  running  the  risk'  of  seeing 
another  tenor  called  into  my  place,  who  would  never  make  way  for 
me.  Come,”  he  added,  after  walking  twice  or  thrice  up  and  down  the 
room,  “ whkt  are  my  faults  ? ” 

“I  have  told  you  them  very  often — too  much  boldness,  and* not 
enough  study.  An  energy  factitious  and  feverish,  rather  than  felt. 
Dramatic  effects,  the  result  of  will  rather  than  of  sentiment.  You 
never  penetrated  to  the  inner  meaning  of  your  part.  You  picked  it 
up  piecemeal.  You  have  discovered  in  it  only  a succession  of  more 
or  less  brilliant  hits.  You  have  neither  hit  on  the  scale  of  their  con- 
nexion, nor  sustained,  nor  developed  them.  Eager  to  display  your 
fine  voice,  and  the  facility  which  you  possess  in  certain  points,  you 
showed  as  much  power  in  your  first  as  in  your  last  entrance  on  the 
stage.  On  the  least  opportunity  you  strove  for  an  effect,  and  all 
your  effects  were  identical.  At  the  end  of  your  first  act  you  were 
known,  and  known,  too,  by  heart — but  they  were  unconscious  that 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  known,  and  something  prodigious  was 
expected  from  you  at  the  finale.  That  something  you  lacked.  Your 
emotion  was  exhausted,  ard  your  voice  had  no  longer  the  same  fill-; 
ness.  You  perceived  this  yourself,  and  endeavored  to  force  both.| 
Your  audience  perceived  this,  too,  and  to  your  great  surmise  they) 
were  cold  where  you  thought  yourself  the  most  pathetic.  The  cause] 


•0 


COM8UKL0. 


was  this,  that  when  they  looked  for  the  actor’s  passion  they  found 
only  the  actor’s  struggle  for  success.” 

“ And  how  do  others  get  on  ? ” cried  Anzoleto,  stamping  his  foot 
for  rage.  “ Do  you  think  I have  not  heard  them  all — all  who  have 
been  applauded  in  Venice  these  last  ten  years?  Did  not  old  Stefa- 
nlni  screech  when  his  voice  gave  out  ? and  was  he  not  still  applauded 
to  the  echo  ? ” 

“ It  is  quite  true ; and  I never  believed  that  the  audience  were  so 
mistaken.  I doubt  not  they  bore  in  mind  the  time  when  he  had  all 
his  powers,  and  felt  unwilling  to  allow  him  to  feel  the  defects  and 
misfortunes  of  his  old  age.” 

“ And  Corilla — what  have  you  to  say  to  her — the  idol  whom  yon 
overthrew  ? — did  not  she  force  her  effects,  did  she  not  make  exertions 
painful,  both  to  the  eye  and  ear?  Were  her  passions,  was  her  ex- 
citement, real  when  she  was  vaunted  to  the  skies? ” 

“ It  is  because  I knew  all  her  resources  to  be  fictitious,  all  her 
efforts  atrocious,  her  acting,  no  less  than  her  singing,  utterly  deficient, 
both  in  taste  and  dignity,  that  I came  upon  the  stage  so  confidently, 
being  satisfied,  as  you  were,  that  the  public  did  not  know  much  about 
it.” 

“ Ah,  you  are  probing  my  worst  wound,  my  poor  Consuelo!  ” said 
Anzoleto,  sighing  very  ieeply  ere  he  spoke. 

“ How  so,  my  well  be^tr^d  ? ” 

w How  so  ? — can  you  ask  me  ? —we  were  both  deceiving  ourselves, 
Consuelo.  The  public  knows  right  well.  Its  instincts  reveal  to  it  all 
which  its  ignorance  covers  with  a shroud.  It  is  a great  baby,  which 
must  have  amusement  and  excitement.  It  is  satisfied  with  whatever 
they  give  it ; but  once  show  it  anything  better,  and  at  once  it  compares 
and  comprehends.  Corilla  could  enthral  it  last  week,  though  she 
sang  out  of  tune  and  was  short-breathed.  You  made  your  appear- 
ance, and  Corilla  was  ruined ; she  is  blotted  out  of  their  memories — 
entombed.  If  she  should  appear  again  she  would  be  hissed  off  the 
stage.  Had  I made  my  debut  with  her,  I should  have  succeeded  as 
thoroughly  as  I did  on  the  night  when  I sang  after  her  for  the  first 
time  at  the  Palazzo  Zustiniani.  But  compared  with  you  I was  eclips- 
ed. It  needs  must  have  been  so ; and  so  it  ever  will  be.  The  public 
had  a taste  for  pinchbeck.  It  took  false  stones  for  jewels;  it  was 
dazzled.  A diamond  of  the  first  water  is  shown  to  it,  and  at  a glance 
it  sees  that  it  has  been  grossly  cheated.  It  can  be  humbugged  no 
longer  with  sham  diamonds,  and  when  it  meets  them  does  justice  on 
them  at  sight.  This, Consuelo, has beenmy  misfortune:  to  have  made 
my  appearance,  a mere  bit  of  Venetian  bead- work,  beside  an  invalu- 
able pearl  from  the  treasuries  of  the  sea.” 

Consuelo  did  not  then  apprehend  all  the  bitterness  and  truth  which 
lay  in  these  reflections.  She  set  them  down  to  the  score  of  the  affec- 
tion of  her  betrothed,  and  rep*  ed  to  what  she  took  for  mors 
•y  smiles  and  caresses  only. 


0OM  8UBL&. 


*1 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Ewooukagkd  bj  Consuelo’s  frankness,  and  by  ihe  faitnless  Gorilla's 
perfidy,  to  present  himself  once  more  in  public,  Anzoleto  began  to 
work  vigorously,  so  that  at  the  second  representation  Ipermnestra 
he  sang  much  better.  But  as  the  success  of  Consuelo  was  propor* 
tionably  greater,  he  was  still  dissatisfied,  and  began  to  feel  discour- 
aged by  this  confirmation  of  his  inferiority.  Everything  from  this 
moment  wore  a sinister  aspect.  It  appeared  to  him  that  they  did  not 
listen  to  him — that  the  spectators  who  were  near  him  were  making 
humiliating  observations  upon  his  singing — and  that  benevolent  ama- 
teurs, who  encouraged  him  behind  the  scenes,  did  so  with  an  air  of 
pity.  Their  praises  seemed  to  have  a double  meaning,  of  which  he 
applied  the  less  favorable  to  himself.  Corilla,  whom  he  went  to  con- 
sult in  her  box  between  the  acts,  pretended  to  ask  him  with  a fright- 
en,ed  air  if  he  were  not  ill. 

“ Why  ? ” said  he,  impatiently. 

w Because  your  voice  is  dull,  and  you  seem  overcome.  Dear  Anxo- 
leto,  strive  to  regain  your  powers,  which  were  paralyzed  by  fear  or 
discouragement.” 

M Did  I not  sing  my  first  air  well?  ” 

“ Not  half  so  well  as  on  the  first  occasion.  My  heart  sank  so  that  I 
found  myself  on  the  point  of  fainting.” 

“ But  the  audience  applauded  me,  nevertheless.” 

“ Alas  1 what  does  it  signify  ? I was  wrong  to  dispel  your  illusion. 
Continue  then ; but  endeavor  to  clear  your  voice.” 

“ Consuelo,”  thought  he,  “ meant  to  give  me  good  advice.  She  acts 
from  instinct,  and  succeeds.  But  where  could  I gain  the  experience 
which  would  enable  me  to  restrain  the  unruly  public  ? In  following 
her  counsel  I lose  my  own  natural  advantages ; and  they  reckon  noth- 
ing on  the  improvement  of  my  style.  Come,  let  me  return  to  my 
early  confidence.  At  my  first  appearance  at  the  count’s,  I saw  that  I 
could  dazzle  those  whom  I failed  to  persuade.  Did  not  old  Porpora 
tell  me  that  I had  the  blemishes  of  genius.  Come,  then,  let  me  bend 
this  public  to  my  dictation,  and  make  it  bow  to  the  yoke.” 

He  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  achieved  wonders  in  the  second 
act,  and  was  listened  to  with  surprise.  Some  clapped  their  hands, 
others  imposed  silence,  while  the  majority  inquired  whether  it  were 
sublime  or  detestable. 

A little  more  boldness,  and  Anzoleto  might  perhaps  have  won  the 
day;  but  this  reverse  affected  him  so  much  that  he  became  conftised, 
and  broke  down  shamefully  in  the  remainder  of  his  part. 

At  the  third  representation  he  had  resumed  his  confidence,  and  re- 
solved to  go  on  in  his  own  way.  Not  heeding  the  advice  of  Consuelo, 
he  hazarded  the  wildest  caprices,  the  most  daring  absurdities.  Cries 
of  “ oh,  shame ! ” mingled  with  hisses,  once  or  twice  interrupted  the 
silence  with  which  these  desperate  attempts  were  received.  The  good 
and  generous  public  silenced  the  hisses  and  began  to  applaud ; but  it 
was  easy  to  perceive  the  kindness  was  for  the  person,  the  blame  for 
the  artist.  Anzoleto  tore  his  dress  on  re-entering  his  box,  and  scarce- 
ly had  the  representation  terminated,  than  he  flew  to  Corilla,  a Drey 
to  the  deepest  rage,  and  resolved  to  fly  with  her  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth. 


OOKStELO. 


M 

Three  days  passed  without  his  seeing  Oonsue.o.  She  inapirei 
neither  with  hatred  nor  coldness,  but  merely  with  terror ; for  in  tlis 
depths  of  a soul  pierced  with  remorse,  he  still  cherished  her  image, 
and  suffered  cruelly  from  not  seeing  her.  He  felt  the  superiority  of  a 
being  who  overwhelmed  him  in  puolic  with  her  superiority,  but  who 
secretly  held  possession  of  his  confidence  and  his  good  will.  In  his 
agitation  he  betrayed  to  Corilla  how  truly  he  was  bound  to  his  noble- 
hearted  betrothed,  and  what  an  empire  she  held  over  his  mind.  Co- 
rilla was  mortified,  but  knew  how  to  conceal  it.  She  pitied  him,  elic- 
ited a confession,  and  so  soon  as  she  had  learned  the  secret  of  his 
jealousy,  she  struck  a grand  blow,  by  making  Zustiniani  aware  of 
their  mutual  affection,  thinking  that  the  count  would  immediately  ac- 
quaint Consuelo,  and  thus  render  a reconciliation  impossible. 

Surprised  to  find  another  day  pass  away  in  the  solitude  of  her  gar 
ret,  Comruelo  grew  uneasy ; and  as  still  another  day  of  mortal  anguish 
and  vain  expectation  drew  to  its  close,  she  wrapped  herself  in  a thick 
mantle,  for  the  famous  singer  was  no  longer  sheltered  by  her  obscur- 
ity, and  ran  to  the  house  occupied  for  some  weeks  by  Anzoleto,  a 
more  comfortable  abode  than  what  he  had  before  enjoyed,  and  one  of 
numerous  houses  which  the  count  possessed  in  the  city.  She  did  not 
find  him,  and  learned  that  he  was  seldom  there. 

This  did  not  enlighten  her  as  to  his  infidelity.  She  knew  his  wan- 
dering and  poetic  habits,  and  thought  that,  not  feeling  at  home  in 
these  sumptuous  abodes,  he  had  returned  to  his  old  quarters.  She 
was  about  to  continue  her  search,  when,  on  returning  to  pass  the 
door  a second  time,  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Porpora. 

“ Consuelo,”  said  he  in  a low  voice,  “ it  is  useless  to  hide  from  me 
your  features.  J have  just  heard  your  voice,  and  cannot  be  mistaken 
In  it.  What  do  you  here  at  this  hour,  my  poor  child,  and  whom  do 
you  seek  in  this  house  ? ” 

“ I seek  my  betrothed,”  replied  Consuelo,  while  she  passed  her  arm 
within  that  of  her  old  master;  “and  I do  not  know  why. I should 
blush  to  confess  it  to  my  best  friend.  I see  very  well  that  you  disap- 
prove of  my  attachment,  but  I could  not  tell  an  untruth.  I am  un- 
happy ; I have  not  seen  Anzoleto  since  the  day  before  yesterday  at 
the  theatre ; he  must  be  unwell.” 

“ He  unwell  I ” said  the  professor,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  u Come, 
my  poor  girl,  we  must  talk  over  this  matter;  and  since  you  have  at 
last  opened  your  heart  to  me,  I must  open  mine  also.  Give  me  your 
arm : we  can  converse  as  we  go  along.  Listen,  Consuelo,  and  attend 
earnestly  to  what  I say.  You  cannot — you  ought  not — to  be  the  wife 
of  this  young  man.  I forbid  you,  in  the  name  of  God,  who  has  in- 
spired me  with  the  feelings  of  a father  towards  you.” 

“ Oh,  my  master,”  replied  Consuelo,  mournfully,  “ ask  of  me  the 
•acrifice  of  my  life,  but  not  that  of  my  love.” 

“ I do  not  ask  it— I command  it,”  said  Porpora,  firmly.  * The 
er  is  accursed — he  will  prove  your  torment  and  your  shame,  if  you 
not  forswear  him  for  ever.” 

“ Dear  master,”  replied  she,  with  a sad  and  tender  smile,  “ you  have 
told  me  so  very  often ; I have  endeavored  in  vain  to  obey  you.  You 
dislike  this  poor  youth ; you  do  not  know  him,  and  I am  certain  you 
will  alter  your  mind.” 

* Consuelo,”  said  the  master,  more  decl  ledly,  “ I have  till  now,  I 
know,  made  vain  and  rseless  objections.  I spoke  to  you  as  an  artist 
1 as  to  an  artist— as  I only  saw  one  a your  betrothed.  Now  I 

F 


eOHStJELO. 


OS 


speak  to  you  as  a man — I speak  to  yon  of  a man — and  I address  yon 
as  a woman.  This  woman’s  love  is  wasted : the  man  is  unworthy  ol 
it,  and  he  who  tells  you  so  knows  he  speaks  the  truth.” 

“ Oh,  Heaven  I Anzoleto — my  only  friend,  my  protector,  my  brother 
— unworthy  of  my  love ! Ah,  you  do  not  know  what  he  has  done  for 
me — how  he  has  cared  for  me  since  I was  left  alone  in  the  world.  I 
must  tell  you  all.”  And  Consuelo  related  the  history  of  her  life  and 
of  her  love,  and  it  was  one  and  the  same  history. 

Porpora  was  affected,  but  not  to  be  shaken  from  his  purpose. 

“ In  all  this,”  said  he,  “ I see  nothing  but  your  innocence,  your 
virtue,  your  fidelity.  As  to  him,  I see  very  well  that  he  has  need  of 
your  society  and  your  instructions,  to  which,  whatever  you  may  think, 
he  owes  the  little  that  he  knows,  and  the  little  he  is  worth.  It  is  not 
however,  the  less  true,  that  this  pure  and  upright  lover  is  no  better 
than  a castaway — that  he  spends  his  time  and  money  in  low  dissipa- 
tion—and  only  thinks  of  turning  you  to  the  best  account  in  forward 
ing  his  career.” 

“ Take  heed  to  what  you  say,”  replied  Consuelo,.  in  suffocating  ac- 
cents. “ I have  always  believed  in  you,  oh,  my  master  I after  God ; 
but  as  to  what  concerns  Anzoleto,  I have  resolved  to  close  my  heart 
and  my  ears.  Ah,  suffep  me  to  leave  you,”  she  added,  taking  her  arm 
from  the  professor — “ it  is-  death  to  listen  to  you.” 

“ Let  it  be  death  then  to  your  fatal  passion,  and  through  the  truth 
let  me  restore  you  to  life,”  he  said,  pressing  her  arm  to  his  generous 
and  indignant  breast.  “ I know  that  I am  rough,  Consuelo — I cannot 
be  otherwise ; and  therefore  it  is  that  I have  put  off  as  long  as  I 
could  the  blow  which  I am  about  to  inflict.  I had  hoped  that  you 
would  open  your  eyes,  in  order  that  you  might  comprehend  what  was 
going  on  around  you.  But  in  place  of  being  enlightened  by  expe 
rience,  you  precipitate  yourself  blindly  into  the  abyss.  I will  not  suf 
fer  you  to  do  so — you,  the  only  one  for  whom  I have  cared  for  many 
years.  You  must  not  perish — no,  you  must  not  perish.” 

“ But,  my  kind  friend,  I am  in  no  danger.  Do  you  believe  that  I 
tell  an  untruth  when  I assure  you  by  all  that  is  sacred  that  I have  re- 
spected my  mother’s  wishes  ? Iam  not  Anzoleto’s  wife,  but  I am  his 
betrothed.” 

“ And  you  were  seeking  this  evening  the  man  who  may  not  and 
cannot  be  your  husband.” 

“ Who  told  you  so  ? ” 

“ Would  Corilla  ever  permit  him?  ” 

“ Corilla ! — what  has  he  to  say  to  Corilla  ? ” 

“ We  are  but  a few  paces  from  this  girl’s  abode.  Do  yon  seek  your 
betrothed  ?— if  you  have  courage,  you  will  find  him  there.” 

“No,  no  I a thousand  times  no!”  said  Consuelo,  tottering  as  she 
went,  and  leaning  for  support  against  the  wall.  “ Let  me  live,  my 
master — do  not  kill  me  ere  I have  well  begun  to  live.  I toid  you  that 
it  was  death  to  listen  to  you.” 

“ You  must  drink  of  the  cup,”  said  the  inexorable  old  man ; “ I but 
fhlfil  your  destiny. — Having  only  realised  ingratitude,  and  consequent- 
ly made  the  objects  of  my  teniemess  and  attention  unhappy,  I must 
say  the  truth  to  those  I love.  It  is  the  only  thing  a heart  long  with- 
ered and  rendered  callous  by  suffering  an&  despair  can  do.  I pity 
you,  poor  girl,  in  that-  you  have  not  a friend  more  gentle  and  humane  te 
•ustain  you  in  such  a crisis.  But  such  as  I am  I must  be ; I must  act 
upon  others,  If  not  as  with  the  sun’s  genial  heat,  with  the  lightning’s 


94 


CON8UELO, 

blasting  power.  So  then,  Consue.o,  let  there  be  no  faltering  between 
ns.  Come  to  this  palace.  You  must  surprise  your  faithless  lo^er  at 
tha  feat  of  the  treacherous  Corilla.  If  you  cannot  walk,  I must  drag 
you  along — if  you  :annot  stand,  I shall  carry  you.  Ah,  old  Porpora 
is  yet  strong,  when  the  fire  of  Divine  anger  burns  in  his  heart.” 

44  Mercy  I mercy ! ” exclaimed  Consuelo,  pale  as  death.  “ Suffer  me 
yet  to  doubt.  Give  me  a day,  were  it  but  a single  day,  to  believe  in 
him— I am  not  prepared  for  this  affliction.” 

44  No,  not  a day — not  a single  hour,”  replied  he  inflexibly.  44  Away ! 
I shall  not  be  able  to  recall  the  passing  hour,  to  lay  the  truth  open  to 
you;  and  the  faithless  one  will  take  advantage  of  the  day  which  you 
ask,  to  place  you  again  under  the  dominion  of  falsehood.  Come  with 
me,  I command  you — I insist  on  it.” 

44  Well,  I will  go ! ” exclaimed  Consuelo,  regaining  strength,  through 
a violent  reaction  of  her  love.  44 1 will  go,  were  it  only  to  demonstrate 
your  injustice  and  the  truth  of  my  lover;  for  you  deceive  yourself 
unworthily,  as  you  would  also  deceive  me.  Come,  then,  executioner 
as  you  are,  I shall  follow,  for  I do  not  fear  you.” 

Porpora  took  her  at  her  word ; and,  seizing  her  with  a hand  of  iron, 
he  conducted  her  to  the  mansion  which  he  inhabited.  Having  passed 
through  the  corridors  and  mounted  the  stairs,  they  reached  at  last  a 
terrace,  whence  they  could  distinguish  over  the  roof  of  a lower  build 
ing,  completely  uninhabited,  the  palace  of  Corilla,  entirely  darkened 
with  the  exception  of  one  lighted  window,  which  opened  upon  the 
sombre  and  silent  front  of  the  deserted  house.  Any  one  at  this  window 
might  suppose  that  no  person  could  see  them ; for  the  balcony  prevent- 
ed  any  one  from  seeing  up  from  below.  There  was  nothing  level  with 
it,  and  above,  nothing  but  the  cornice  of  the  house  which  Porpora 
inhabited,  and  which  was  not  placed  so  as  to  command  the  palace  of 
the  singer.  But  Corilla  was  ignorant  that  there  was  at  the  angle  a 
projection  covered  with  lead,  a sort  of  recess  concealed  by  a large 
chimney,  where  the  maestro  with  artistic  caprice  came  every  evening 
to  gaze  at  the  stars,  shun  his  fellows,  and  dream  of  sacred  or  dramatic 
subjects.  Chance  had  thus  revealed  to  him  the  intimacy  of  Anzoleto 
with  Corilla,  and  Consuelo  had  only  to  look  in  the  direction  pointed 
out,  to  discover  her  lover  in  a tender  tete-k-tete  with  her  rival.  She 
instantly  turned  away : and  Porpora,  who  dreading  the  effects  of  the 
sight  upon  her,  had  held  her  with  superhuman  strength,  led  her  to  a 
lower  story  in  his  apartments,  shutting  .the  door  and  window  to  con- 
ceal the  explosion  which  he  anticipated. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

But  there  was  no  explosion.  Consuelo  remained  silent,  and  as  it 
were  stunned.  Porpora  spoke  to  her.  She  made  no  reply,  and  signed 
to  him  not  to  question  her.  She  then  rose,  and  going  to  a large 
pitcher  of  iced  water  which  stood  on  the  harpsichord,  swallowed 
Jurge  draughts  of  it.  took  several  turns  up  and  down  the  apartment, 
ana  sat  down  before  her  master  without  uttering ‘a  word. 

The  austere  old  ana  a di  i not  comprehend  the  extremity  of 
•offerings* 


eoiffltrsio*  96 

•Well,*  said  he,  * did  I deceive  you?  What  do  you  think  of 
doing?" 

A painftil  shrdder  shook  her  motionless  figure— she  passed  her 
hand  over  her  forehead. 

“ I can  think  of  nothing,"  said  she,  **  till  I understand  what  has 
happened  to  me.” 

“ And  what  remains  to  be  understood  ? ” 

u Everyth  mg l because  I understand  nothing.  I am  seeking  for  the 
cause  of  my  misfortune  without  finding  anything  to  explain  it  to  me. 
What  have  I done  to  Anzoleto  that  he  should  cease  to  love  me? 
What  fault  have  I committed  to  render  me  unworthy  in  his  eyes  ? 
You  cannot  tell  me,  for  I searched  into  my  own  heart  and  can  find 
there  no  key  to  the  mystery.  O ! it  is  inconceivable.  My  mother  be- 
lieved in  the  power  of  charms.  Is  Corilla  a magician  ? ” 

u My  poor  child,”  said  the  maestro,  “ there  is  indeed  a magician, 
but  she  is  called  Vanity;  there  is  indeed  a poison,  which  is  called 
Envy.  Corilla  can  dispense  it,  but  it  was  not  she  who  molded  the 
soul  so  fitted  for  its  reception.  The  venom  already  flowed  in  the  im- 
pure veins  of  Anzoleto.  An  extra  dose  has  changed  him  from  t 
knave  into  a traitor — faithless  as  well  as  ungrateful.” 

“ What  vanity,  what  envy  ? ” 

“ The  vanity  of  surpassing  others.  The  desire  to  excel,  and  rags 
at  being  surpassed  by  you.” 

“ Is  that  possible?  Can  a man  be  jealous  of  the  advantages  o&a 
woman  ? Can  a lover  be  displeased  with  the  success  of  his  beloved  ? 
Alas ! there  are  indeed  many  things  which  I neither  know  nor  under- 
stand.” 

“ And  will  never  comprehend,  but  which  you  will  experience  every 
hour  of  your  existence.  You  will  learn  that  a man  can  be  jealous  of 
the  superiority  of  a woman,  when  this  man  is  an  ambitious  artist : and 
that  a lover  can  loathe  the  success  of  his  beloved  when  the  theatre  is  the 
arena  of  their  efforts.  It  is  because  the  actor  is  no  longer  a man,  Consu- 
elo — he  is  turned  into  a woman.  He  lives  but  through  the  medium  of 
his  sickly  vanity,  which  alone  he  seeks  to  gratify  and  for  which  alone  he 
labors.  The  beauty  of  a woman  he  feels  a grievance;  her  talent  ex- 
tinguishes or  competes  with  his  own.  A woman  is  his  rival,  or  rather 
he  is  the  rival  of  a woman ; he  has  all  the  littleness,  all  the  caprice, 
all  the  wants,  all  the  ridiculous  airs  of  a coquette.  This  is  the  char- 
acter of  the  greatest  number  of  persons  belonging  to  the  theatre. 
There  are  indeed  grand  exceptions,  but  they  are  so  rare,  so  admirable, 
that  one  should  bow  before  them  and  render  them  homage,  as  to  the 
wisest  and  best.  Anzoleto  is  no  exception ; he  is  the  vainest  of  the 
vain.  In  that  one  word  you  have  the  explanation  of  his  conduct.” 

“ But  what  unintelligible  revenge.  What  poor  and  Insufficient 
means  I How  can  Corilla  recompense  him  for  his  losses  with  the 
public?  Had  he  only  spoken  openly  to  me  of  his  sufferings  (alas!  it 
needed  only  a word  for  that,)  I should  have  understood  him  perhaps 
— at  least  I would  have  compassionated  him,  and  retired  to  yield  him 
the  first  place.” 

“ It  is  the  peculiarity  of  envy  to  hate  people  in  proportion  to  the 
happiness  of  which  it  deprives  them ; just  as  it  is  the  peculiarity  of 
selfish  love  to  hate  in  the  object  which  we  love,  the  pleasure  which  w« 
are  not  the  means  of  procuring  him.  Whilst  your  lover  abhors  the 
public  which  loads  you  with  glory,  do  you  not  hate  the  rival  who  In- 
toxicates him  with  her  charms  f ” 


')  ' 

CONSUELO. 


“ My  master,  fin  have  uttered  a profound  reflection,  which  I would 
fain  ponder  on.” 

“ It  is  true.  While  Anzoleto  detests  you  for  your  happiness  on  the 
stage,  you  hate  him  for  his  happiness  in  the  boudoir  of  Corilla.” 

“ It  is  not  so.  I could  not  hate  him ; and  you  have  made  me  feel 
feat  it  would  be  cowardly  and  disgraceful  to  hate  my  rival.  As  to  the 
passion  with  which  she  fills  him,  I shudder  to  think  of  it — why,  I know 
not.  If  it  be  involuntary  on  his  part,  Anzoleto  is  not  guilty  in  hating 
my  success.” 

“You  are  quick  to  interpret  matters,  so  as  to  excuse  his  conduct 
and  sentiments.  No ; Anzoleto  is  not  innocent  or  estimable  in  his  suf- 
fering like  you.  He  deceives,  he  disgraces  you,  whilst  you  endeavor  to 
justify  him.  However,  I did  not  wish  to  inspire  you  with  hatred  and 
resentment,  but  with  calmness  and  indifference.  The  character  of 
this  man  influences  his  conduct.  You  will  never  change  him.  De- 
cide, and  think  only  of  yourself.” 

“ Of  myself— -of  myself  alone?  Of  myself,  without  hope  *oVe?” 

“Think  of  music,  the  divine  art,  Consuelo;  you  would  not  care  to 
say  that  you  love  it  only  for  Anzoleto  ? ” 

“ I have  loved  art  for  itself  also ; but  I never  separated  in  my 
thoughts  these  inseparable  objects  — my  life  and  that  of  Anzoleto. 
How  shall  I be  able  to  love  anything  when  the  half  of  my  existence 
is  taken  away  ? ” 

“Anzoleto  was  nothing  more  to  you  than  an  idea,  and  this  idea  im 
parted  life.  You  will  replace  it  by  one  greater,  purer,  more  elevating. 
Your  soul,  your  genius,  your  entire  being,  will  no  longer  be  at  the 
mercy  of  a deceitftil,  fragile  form ; you  shall  contemplate  the  sublime 
ideal  stripped  of  its  earthly  covering ; you  shall  mount  heavenward, 
and  live  in  holy  unison  with  God  himself.” 

“ Do  you  wish,  as  you  once  did,  that  I should  become  a nun  ? ” 

“ No ; this  would  confine  the  exercise  of  your  artistic  faculties  to 
one  direction,  whereas  you  should  embrace  all.  Whatever  you  do,  or 
wherever  you  are,  in  the  theatre  or  in  the  cloister,  you  may  be  a 
saint,  the  bride  of  heaven.” 

“ What  you  say  is  full  of  sublimity,  but  shrouded  in  a mysterious 
garb.  Permit  me  to  retire,  dear  master ; I require  time  to  collect  my 
thoughts  and  question  my  heart.” 

“ You  have  said  it,  Consuelo ; you  need  insight  into  yourself.  Hith- 
erto in  giving  up  your  heart  and  your  prospects  to  one  so  much  your 
inferior,  you  have  not  known  yourself.  You  have  mistaken  your  des- 
seeing  that  you  were  born  without  an  equal*  and  consequently 
liout  the  possibility  of  an  associate  in  this  world.  Solitude,  abso- 
1 3 liberty,  are  needful  for  you.  I would  not  wish  you  a husband,  or 
1 er,  or  family,  or  passions,  or  bonds  of  any  kind.  It  is  thus  I have 
conceived  your  existence,  and  would  direct  your  career.  The  day  on 
x hich  you  give  yourself  away,  you  lose  your  divinity.  Ah,  if  Mingott  i 
and  Moltini,  my  illustrious  pupils,  my  powerful  creations,  had  believed 
In  me,  they  would  have  lived  unrivalled  on  the  earth.  But  woman  is  ( 
weak  and  curious;  vanity  blinds  her,  vain  desires  agitate,  caprices 
hurry  her  away.  In  what  do  these  disquietudes  result  ?— what  but 
in  storms  and  weariness,  in  the  loss,  the  destruction,  or  vitiation,  of 
their  genius.  Would  you  not  be  more  than  they,  Consuelo  ?— does 
not  tout  ambition  soar  above  the  poor  concerns  of  this  life  ? — or 
would  you  nat  appease  these  vain  desires,  and  seize  the  glorkris 
crown  of  everlasting  genius  ? ” 


3OH8U1L0. 


m 


Porpora  continued  to  speak  for  a long  time  w th  an  eloquence  and 
energy  to  which  I cannot  do  justice.  Consuelo  listened,  her  looks  bent 
upon  the  ground.  When  he  had  finished,  she  said,  “ My  dear  master, 
you  are  profound ; but  I cannot  follow  you  sufficiently  throughout. 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  you  outraged  human  nature  in  proscribing  its 
most  noble  passions — as  if  you  would  extinguish  the  instincts  which 
God  himself  has  implanted,  for  the  purpose  of  elevating  what  would 
otherwise  be  a monstrous  and  anti-social  impulse.  Were  I a better 
Christian,  I should  perhaps  better  understand  you;  I shall  try  to  be- 
come so,  and  that  is  all  I can  promise.’’ 

She  took  her  leave,  apparently  tranquil,  but  in  reality  deeply  agita- 
ted. The  great  though  austere  artist  conducted  her  home,  always 
preaching,  but  never  convincing.  He  nevertheless  was  of  infinite  ser- 
vice in  opening  to  her  a vast  field  of  serious  thought  and  inquiry,  where- 
in Anzoleto’s  particular  crime  served  but  as  a painful  and  solemn  in- 
troduction to  thoughts  of  eternity.  She  passed  long  hours,  praying, 
weeping,  and  reflecting ; then  lay  down  to  rest,  with  a virtuous  and 
confiding  hope  in  a merciful  and  compassionate  God. 

The  next  day  Porpora  announced  to  her  that  there  would  be  a re- 
hearsal of  Ipermnestra  for  Stefanini,  who  was  to  fill  Anzoleto’s  part. 
The  latter  was  ill,  confined  to  bed,  and  complained  of  a loss  of  voice. 
Consuelo’s  first  impulse  was  to  fly  to  him  and  nurse  him.  u Spare 
yourself  this  trouble,”  said  the  professor,  “ he  is  perfectly  well ; the 
physician  of  the  theatre  has  said  so,  and  he  will  be  this  evening  with 
Corilla.  But  Count  Zustiniani,  who  understands  very  well  the  mean- 
ing of  it,  and  who  consents  without  much  regret  that  he  should  put 
off  his  appearance,  has  forbidden  the  physician  to  reveal  the  falsehood, 
and  has  requested  the  good  Stefanini  to  return  to  the  theatre  for  some 
days.” 

“ But.,  rcod  Heavens  I what  does  Anzoleto  mean  to  do  ? is  he  about 
to  quit  the  theatre?  ” 

“ Yea — the  theatre  of  San  Samuel.  In  a month  he  is  off  with 
Corilla  for  France.  That  surprises  you?  He  flies  from  the  shadow 
which  you  cast  over  him.  He  has  entrusted  his  fate  to  a woman 
whom  he  dreads  less,  and  whom  he  will  betray  so  soon  as  he  finds  he 
no  longer  requires  her.” 

Consuelo  turned  pale,  and  pressed  her  hands  convulsively  on  her' 
bursting  heart.  Perhaps  she  had  flattered  herself  with  the  idea  of 
reclaiming  Anzoleto,  by  reproaching  him  gently  with  his  faults,  and 
offering  to  put  off  h**r  appearance  for  a time.  This  news  was  a dag- 
ger stroke  to  her,  and  she  could  not  believe  that  she  should  no  more 
see  him  whom  sho  had  so  fondly  loved.  “ Ah,”  said  she,  “ it  is  but 
an  uneasy  dream;  I must  go  and  seek  him;  he  will  explain  every- 
thing. He  cannc / follow  this  woman  ; it  would  be  his  destruction.  I 
cannot  permit  b>'n  to  do  so;  I will  keep  him  back;  I will  make  him 
aware  of  his  tru$  interests,  if  indeed  he  be  any  longer  capable  of  .com- 
prehending tho’Ji.  Come  with  me,  dear  master ; let  us  not  forsake 

“ I will  abandon  you,”  said  the  angry  Porpora,  u and  forever,  if  you 
commit  wav  Mich  folly.  Entreat  a wretch — dispute  with  Corilla? 
Ah,  Santa  O'M'jlia ! distrust  your  Bohemian  origin,  extinguish  your 
blind  and  v/andering  instincts.  Come  1 they  are  waiting  for  you  at 
•he  reheun&i.  You  will  feel  pleasure  in  singing  with  a master  like 
Stefanini,  a modest,  generous,  and  well-informed  artist.” 

He  led  her  to  the  theatre,  and  then  for  the  first  time  she  (bit  an  a** 

8 

r • 


M 


«OH«  JBLO. 


horrence  of  this  artist  life,  chained  to  the  wants  of  the  public,  and 
obliged  to  repress  one’s  own  sentiments  and  emotions  to  obey  those 
of  others.  This  very  rehearsal,  the  subsequent  toilet,  the  perform- 
ance of  the  evening,  proved  a frightful  torment.  Anzoleto  was  still 
absent  Next  day  there  was  to  be  an  opera  buffa  of  Galuppi’s— 
Arcifanfano  Be  de’  Matti.  They  had  chosen  this  farce  to  please  Ste- 
fanini,  who  was  an  excellent  comic  performer.  Consuelo  must  now 
make  those  laugh  whom  she  had  formerly  made  weep.  She  was  bril- 
liant, charming,  pleasing  to  the  last  degree,  though  plunged  at  the 
same  time  in  despair.  Twice  or  thrice  sobs  that  would  force  their 
way  found  vent  in  a constrained  gaiety,  which  would  have  appeared 
frightful  to  those  who  understood  it.  On  retiring  to  her  box,  she  fell 
down  insensible.  The  public  would  have  her  return  to  receive  their 
applause.  She  did  not  appear ; a dreadful  uproar  took  place,  benches 
were  broken,  and  people  tried  to  gain  the  stage.  Stefanini  hastened 
to  her  box,  half  dressed,  his  hair  dishevelled,  and  pale  as  a spectre. 
She  allowed  herself  to  be  supported  back  upon  the  stage,  where  she 
was  received  with  a shower  of  bouquets,  and  forced  to  stoop  to  pick  up 
a laurel  crown.  “ Ah,  the  pitiless  monsters ! ” she  murmured,  as  she 
retired  behind  the  scenes. 

“ My  sweet  one,”  said  the  old  singer,  who  gave  her  his  hand,  “ you 
suffer  greatly ; but  these  little  things,”  added  he,  picking  up  a bunch 
of  brilliant  flowers,  “ are  a specific  for  all  our  woes;  you  will  become 
used  tx>  it,  and  the  time  perhaps  will  arrive  when  you  will  only  feel  fa- 
tigue and  uneasiness  when  they  forget  to  crown.” 

“ Oh,  how  hollow  and  trifling  they  are ! ” thought  poor  Consuelo. 
Having  re-entered  her  box,  she  fainted  away,  literally  upon  a bed  of 
flowers  which  had  been  gathered  on  the  stage  and  thrown  pell-mell 
upon  the  sofa.  The  tire-woman  left  the  box  to  call  a physician. 
Count  Zustiniani  remained  for  some  instants  alone  by  the  side  of  his 
beautiful  singer,  who  looked  pale  and  broken  as  the  beautiful  jasmines 
which  strewed  her  couch.  Carried  away  by  his  admiration,  Zustin- 
iani lost  his  reason,  and  yielding  to  his  foolish  hopes,  he  seized  her 
hand  and  carried  it  to  his  lips.  But  his  touch  was  odious  to  the  pure- 
minded  Consuelo.  She  roused  herself  to  repel  him,  as  if  it  had  been 
the  bite  of  a serpent.  “ Ah  I far  from  me,  said  she,  writhing  in  a 
species  of  delirium ; “ far  from  me  all  love,  all  caresses,  all  honied 
words! — no  love— no  husband — no  lover — no  family  for  me!  my  dear 
master  has  said  it— liberty,  the  ideal,  solitude,  glory!”  And  she 
melte,d  into  tears  so  agonizing  that  the  count  was  alarmed,  and  cast- 
ing himself  on  his  knees  beside  her  strove  to  tranquilize  her;  but  he 
could  find  no  words  of  soothing  import  to  that  pierced  soul ; and  de- 
spite his  efforts  to  conceal  it,  his  passion  would  speak  out.  He  per- 
fectly understood  the  despairing  love  of  the  betrayed  one,  and  he  let 
too  much  of  the  ardor  of  the  hopeful  lover  escape  him.  Consuelo 
seemed  to  listen,  and  mechanically  drew  her  hand  away  from  his, 
with  a bewildered  smile,  which  the  count  mistook  for  encouragement. 

Some  men,  although  possessing  great  tact  and  penetration  in  the 
world,  are  absurd  in  su:h  conjunctures.  The  physician  arrived  and 
administered  a sedative  in  the  style  which  they  called  drops . Consu- 
elo was  then  wrapped  up  in  her  mantle  and  carried  to  her  gondola. 
The  count  entered  with  her,  supporting  her  in  his  arms,  and  always 
talking  of  his  loves,  with  some  degree  of  eloquence,  which,  as  he  im- 
agined, must  carry  conviction.  At  the  end  of  a quarter  of  an  hooi| 
obtaining  no  response,  he  imp. o red  a reply,  a glance. 


ooMstntLO.  9i 

44  To  what  then  shall  I answer?”  said  Consuelo,  4 I have  heard 
nothing.” 

Zustiniani,  although  at  first  discouraged,  thought  there  could  not  be 
a better  opportunity,  and  that  this  afflicted  soul  would  be  more  acces- 
sible than  after  reflection  and  reason.  He  spoke  again,  but  there  wai 
the  same  silence,  the  same  abstraction,  only  that  there  was  a nofc-to- 
be-mistaken  effort,  though  without*  any  angry  demonstration,  to  repel 
his  advances.  When  the  gondola  touched  the  shore,  he  tried  to  de- 
tain Consuelo  for  an  instant  to  obtain  a word  of  encouragement 
“Ah,  signor,”  said  she,  coldly,  “ excuse  my  weak  state.  I have 
heard  badly,  but  I understand.  Oh  yes,  I understand  perfectly.  1 
ask  this  night,  this  one  night,  to  reflect,  to  recover  from  my  distress 
To-morrow,  yes,  to-morrow,  I shall  reply  without  fail.” 

44  To-morrow ! dear  Consuelo,  oh,  it  is  an  age ! But  I shall  submit 
—only  allow  me  at  least  to  hope  for  your  friendship.” 

“Oh,  yes,  yesl  there  is  hope,”  replied  Consuelo,  in  a constrained 
voice,  placing  her  foot  upon  the  bank ; “ but  do  not  follow  me,”  said 
the,  as  she  motioned  him  with  an  imperious  gesture  back  to  the  gon- 
dola; “ otherwise  there  will  be  no  room  for  hope.” 

Shame  and  anger  restored  her  strength,  but  it  was  a nervous,  fev- 
erish strength,  which  found  vent  in  hysteric  laughter  as  she  ascended 
the  stairs. 

44  You  are  very  happy,  Consuelo,”  said  a voice  in  the  darkness, 
which  almost  stunned  her;  44 1 congratulate  you  on  your  gaiety.” 

44  Oh,  yes,”  she  replied,  while  she  seized  Anzoleto’s  arm  violently, 
and  rapidly  ascended  with  him  to  her  chamber.  44 1 thank  you,  An- 
loleto.  You  were  right  to  congratulate  me.  I am  truly  happy— oh, 
so  happy ! ” 

Anzoleto,  who  had  been  waiting  for  her,  had  already  lighted  the 
lamp,  and  when  the  bluish  light  fell  upon  their  agitated  features,  they 
both  started  back  in  affright. 

44 We  are  very  happy,  are  we  not,  Anzoleto?”  said  she,  with  a 
choking  voice,  while  her  features  were  distorted  with  a smile  that 
covered  her  cheeks  with  tears.  “What  think  you  of  our  hjq>pl 
ness?  ” 

44 1 think,  Consuelo,”  replied  he,  with  a calm  and  bitter  smile,  44  that 
we  have  found  it  troublesome;  but  we  shall  get  on  better  by-and- 
bye.” 

44  You  seemed  to  me  to  be  much  at  home  in  Corilla’s  boudoir.” 

44  And  you,  I find,  very  much  at  your  ease  in  the  gondola  of  the 
count.” 

44  The  count ! You  knew,  then,  Anzoleto,  that  the  count  wished  to 
supplant  you  in  my  affections  ? ” 

44  And  in  order  not  to  annoy  you,  my  dear,  I prudently  kept  in  the 
background.” 

44  Ahj  you  knew  it ; and  this  is  the  time  you  have  taken  to  abandon 
me.” 

44  Have  I not  done  well  ?— are  you  not  content  with  your  lot  ? The 
count  is  a generous  lover,  and  the  poor,  condemned  singer  would  have 
no  business,  I fancy,  to  contend  with  him.” 

44  Porpora  was  right ; you  are  an  infamous  man.  Leave  my  sight\ 
You  do  not  deserve  that  I shou.d  justify  myself.  It  would  be  a stain 
were  I to  regret  you.  Leave  me,  I tell  you;  but  first  know,  that 
you  can  come  out  at  Venice  and  re-enter  San  Samuel  with  Corilla. 
Sever  shall  my  mother’s  daughter  set  foot  upon  the  vile  boards  of  a 
theatre  again.” 


GONSUSCL&, 


100 

M The  daughter  of  your  mother  the  zingara  will  play  the  great  lady 
ip  the  villa  of  Zustiniani,  on  the  shores  of  the  B rents.  It  will  be  a 
fair  career,  and  I shall  be  glad  of  it.” 

"Oh  my  mother!”  exclaimed  Consuelo,  turning  towards  the  bed 
and  falling  on  her  knees,  as  she  buried  her  face  in  the  counterpane 
which  had  served  as  a shroud  for  the  zingara . 

Anzoleto  was  terrified  and  afflicted  by  this  energetic  movement,  and 
the  convulsive  sobs  which  burst  from  the  breast  of  Consuelo.  Re- 
morse seized  on  his  heart,  and  he  approached  his  betrothed  to  raite 
her  in  his  arms ; but  she  rose  of  herself,  and  pushing  him  from  her 
with  wild  strength,  thrust  him  towards  the  door,  exclaiming  as  she 
did  so,  “ Away — away ! from  my  heart,  from  my  memory ! — farewell 
forever  I” 

Anzoleto  had  come  to  seek  her  with  % low  and  selfish  design ; nev- 
ertheless it  was  the  best  thing  he  could  have  done.  He  could  not 
bear  to  leave  her,  and  he  had  struck  out  a plan  to  reconcile  matters. 
He  meant  to  inform  her  of  the  danger  she  ran  from  the  designs  of 
Zustiniani,  and  thus  remove  her  from  the  theatre.  In  this  resolution 
he  paid  full  homage  to  the  pride  and  purity  of  Consuelo.  He  knew 
her  incapable  of  tampering  with  a doubtful  position,  or  of  accepting 
protection  which  ought  to  make  her  blush.  His  guilty  and  corrupt 
soul  still  retained  unshaken  faith  in  the  innocence  of  this  young  girl, 
whom  he  was  certain  of  finding  as  faithful  and  devoted  as  he  had  left 
her  days  before.  But  how  reconcile  this  devotion  with  the  precon- 
ceived design  of  deceiving  her,  and,  without  a rupture  with  Corilla, 
of  remaining  still  her  betrothed,  her  friend  ? He  wished  to  re-enter 
the  theatre  with  the  latter,  and  could  not  think  of  separating  at  the 
very  moment  when  his  success  depended  on  her.  This  audacious  and 
cowardly  plan  was  nevertheless  formed  in  his  mind,  and  he  treated 
Consuelo  as  the  Italian  women  do  those  madonnas  whose  protection 
they  implore  in  the  hour  of  repentance,  and  whose  faces  they  veil  in 
their  erring  moments. 

When  he  beheld  her  so  brilliant  and  so  gay,  in  her  buffa  part  at  the 
theatre,  he  began  to  fear  that  he  had  lost  too  much  time  in  maturing 
his  design.  When  he  saw  her  return  in  the  gondola  of  the  count,  and 
approach  with  a joyous  burst  of  laughter,  he  feared  he  was  too  late, 
and  vexation  seized  him ; but  when  she  rose  above  his  insults,  and 
banished  him  with  scorn,  respect  returned  with  fear,  and  he  wan 
dered  long  on  the  stair  and  on  the  quay,  expecting  her  to  recall  him. 
He  even  ventured  to  knock  and  implore  pardon  through  the  door;  but 
a deep  silence  reigned  in  that  chamber,  whose  threshold  he  was  never 
to  cross  with  Consuelo  again.  He  retired,  confused  and  chagrined, 
determined  to  return  on  the  morrow,  and  flattering  himself  that  he 
should  then  prove  more  successful. — “ After  all,”  said  he  to  himself, 
M my  project  will  succeed ; she  knows  the  count’s  love,  and  all  that  is 
requisite  is  half  done.” 

Overwhelmed  with  fatigue,  he  slept  : long  in  the  afternoon  he  went 
to  Corilla. 

“ Great  news ! ” she  exclaimed,  running  to  meet  him  with  out- 
•tretched  arms ; “ Consuelo  is  off.” 

“ Off!  gracious  Heaven ! — whither,  and  with  whom  ? ” 

“ To  Vienna,  where  Porpora  has  sent  her,  intending  to  join  her 
there  himself.  She  has  deceived  us  all,  the  little  cheat  She  wai  en- 
gaged for  the  emperor’s  theatre,  where  Porpora  propose#  that  aha 
Should  appear  in  his  new  opera.” 


C0N3UEL0.  101 

* Gone ! gone  without  a word ! ” exclaimed  Anzoleto,  rushing  to- 
wards the  door. 

“ It  is  of  no  use  seeking  her  in  Venice,”  said  Gorilla  with  a sneer- 
ing smile  and  a look  of  triumph.  “ She  set  out  for  Palestrina  at  day- 
break, and  is  already  far  from  this  on  the  mainland.  Zustiniani,  who 
thought  himself  beloved,  but  who  was  only  made  a fool  of,  is  furious, 
and  confined  to  his  couch  with  fever ; but  he  sent  Porpora  to  me  just 
now,  to  try  and  get  me  to  sing  this  evening;  and  Stefanini,  who  i» 
tired  of  the  stage,  and  anxious  to  enjoy  the  sweets  of  retirement  in 
his  cassino,  is  very  desirous  to  see  you  resume  your  performances. 
Therefore  prepare  for  appearing  to-morrow  in  Ipermneetra.  In  the 
mean  time,  as  they  are  waiting  for  me,  I must  run  away.  If  you  do 
not  believe,  you  can  take  a turn  through  the  city,  and  convince  your- 
self that  I have  told  you  the  truth.” 

“ By  all  the  furies ! ” exclaimed  Anzoleto,  “ you  have  gained  your 
point,  but  you  have  taken  my  life  along  with  it.” 

And  he  swooned  away  on  the  Persian  carpet  of  the  false  Corilla. 


JHAPTEK  XXL 

Of  all  others  the  Count  Zustiniani  was  the  person  most  put  out  In 
his  part  by  the  flight  of  Consuelo.  After  having  allowed  it  to  be  said 
and,  indeed,  induced  all  Venice  to  believe,  that  the  wonderful  new 
actress  was  his  mistress,  how  was  he  to  explain,  in  a manner 
tolerably  satisfactory  to  his  own  self-love,  the  fact,  that  on  his  first 
word  of  declaration,  she  had  abruptly  and  mysteriously  evaded  his 
hopes  and  desires?  Some  persons  were  of  opinion  that,  jealous 
of  his  treasure,  he  had  concealed  her  in  one  of  his  country  houses. 
But  when. Porpora  was  heard  to  declare,  with  his  wanted  stern  grav- 
ity, the  part  which  his  pupil  had  adopted — of  going  in  advance  of 
him  into  Germany — there  was  no  more  to  be  done,  but  to  seek  the 
causes  of  her  singular  resolution.  The  count,  in  order  to  divert  men’s 
minds,  affected  to  be  neither  vexed  nor  surprised;  but  still  his  annoy- 
ance leaked  out  in  spite  of  him,  and  the  world  ceased  to  attribute  to 
him,  in  this  instance,  the  success  on  wrhich  he  so  greatly  prided  him- 
self. The  greater  part  of  the  truth,  in  fact,  soon  became  known  to 
the  public — to  wit:  Anzoleto’s  faithlessness,  Corilla’s  rivalry,  and  the 
despair  of  the  poor  Spaniard,  who  was  now  warmly  pitied  and  ten- 
derly regretted.  Anzoleto’s  first  impulse  was  to  hurry  to  Porpora ; 
but  he  had  met  with  the  sternest  repulses  from  him.  “ Cease  ques- 
tioning me,  young  ambitious  fool,  heartless  and  faithless  that  you 
are,”  replied  the  master,  with  noble  indignation.  “ You  never  de- 
served that  noble  girl’s  affection,  and  never  shall  you  learn  of  me 
what  has  become  of  her.  I will  exert  all  my  cares  to  prevent  you 
from  ever  getting  on  her  traces ; and  I hope  that,  should  you  ever 
chance  to  meet  her  at  some  future  day,  her  image  will  be  effaced  from 
your  heart  and  memory,  as  completely  as  I hope  and  endeavor  to  ef- 
fect that  it  shall  be” 

From  the  house  of  Porpora,  Anzoleto  had  hastened  to  the  Corte 
Minelli,  where  he  found  Consuelo’s  room  occupied  by  a new  tenant, 
ffeo  was  already  in  possession, —and  fitted  up  with  the  instrument* 


102 


COXSUBLO, 


and  materials  of  his  trade.  He  was  a glass-worker,  who  had  long 
dwelt  in  the  same  house,  and  was  now  gaily  moving  his  workshop  in- 
to his  new  premises. 

“Ah,  ha!  so  this  is  you,  my  boy?”  he  cried  to  the  young  tenor; 
“so  you  have  come  to  see  me  in  my  new  lodging?  I shall  do  very 
well  here,  and  my  wife  is  delighted  at  having  means  to  lodge  her 
children  here  down  stairs.  What  are  you  looking  for  ? Has  Consuelo 
forgotten  anything?  Look  away,  my  boy,  look  away;  you  cannot 
disturb  me,” 

“ What  have  they  done  with  her  furniture?  ” asked  Anzoleto,  dis- 
turbed, and  really  cut  to  the  heart  at  seeing  no  vestige  more  of  Cod- 
suelo  in  this  spot,  consecrated  to  the  only  nure  joys  of  his  whole  past 
existence. 

“ The  furniture  is  down  yonder  in  the  court ; she  made  a present 
of  it  to  mother  Agatha,  and  a good  deed  that  was.  The  old  woman 
is  poor,  and  will  make  a little  money  out  of  it.  Oh!  Consuelo  had  a 
good  heart.  She  has  not  left  a farthing  of  debt  in  the  court,  and 
made  every  one  a slight  gift  at  her  departure.  She  took  nothing  with 
her  but  her  crucifix.  It  is  strange,  nevertheless,  that  she  should  have 
gone  off  in  the  dead  of  night  without  letting  a soul  know  of  it. 
Master  Porpora  came  here  this  morning,  and  settled  all  her  business 
it  was  just  like  executing  a will.  All  the  neighbors  were  sorry  for  it , 
but  after  a while  they  all  consoled  themselves,  knowing  that  she  is 
gone  to  live  In  a fine  palace  on  the  Canalazzo,  now  that  she  has  be- 
come rich  and  a great  lady.  For  my  part,  I was  always  sure  that  she 
would  make  a fortune  with  her  voice,  she  worked  so  hard.  And  when 
are  you  to  be  married,  Anzoleto  ? I hope  that  you  will  buy  some 
trifles  of  me  to  make  presents  to  the  girls  of  the  neighborhood.” 

“ Oh,  surely,  surely,”  answered  Anzoleto,  without  knowing  what  he 
said ; and  he  hurried  away  with  hell  in  his  heart,  and  saw  all  the 
beldames  of  the  place  bidding  at  auction  in  the  court-yard  for  Con- 
suelo’s  bed  and  table — that  bed  on  which  he  had  so  often  seen  hef 
sleep,  that  table  at  which  she  had  sat  so  often ! “ Oh,  my  God ! already 
not  a sign  left  of  her  1 ” he  cried,  wringing  his  hands  involuntarily, 
and  be  felt  pretty  well  inclined  to  go  and  stab  Corilla. 

Three  days  afterwards  he  came  upon  the  stage  again  with  Gorilla 
They  were  hissed  tremendously,  one  and  the  other,  and  the  curtain  fell 
amid  a storm  of  censure,  with  the  piece  unfinished.  Anzoleto  was 
furious,  and  Corilla  utterly  unmoved.  “ Behold  the  wTorth  of  your 
protection  to  me,”  he  cried,  in  threatening  tones,  as  soon  as  he  was 
again  alone  with  her.  The  prima  donna  answered  him  with  infinite 
composure — “ You  worry  yourself  about  nothing,  my  child,”  said  she; 
“it  is  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  you  know  nothing  about  the 
world,  and  are  unused  to  its  caprices.  I was  so  well  prepared  for  this 
evening’s  reception,  that  I did  not  even  give  myself  the  trouble  of  go- 
ing over  my  part;  and  the  only  reason  why  I did  not  warn  you  whai 
was  to  come,  is,  that  I knew  you  had  not  the  courage  to  come  upon 
the  stage  at  all,  with  the  certainty  of  being  hissed.  Now  you  must  be 
aiade  aware  what  we  have  to  look  for.  The  next  time  wre  shall  be 
treated  worse  yet.  Three,  four,  perhaps  six  or  eight  appearances  of 
this  kind  will  pass  in  succession.  J>ut,  if  we  were  the  most  wretched 
bunglers  in  the  world,  the  spirit  of  independence  and  contradiction 
will  raise  up  for  us  some  zealous  partisans.  There  are  so  many  folks 
who  think  to  elevate  themselves  by  running  down  others,  that  there 
j»ust  needs  be  some  who  think  to  raise  themselves  by  helping  others 


C ( ' N SUKI  O, 


10S 


forward.  After  ten  or  a dozen  contests,  during  which  the  theatre 
will  be  a battle  fk*ld — half  hissing,  half  applause — the  opposition  will 
get  tired,  our  obstinate  supporters  will  get  sulky,  and  we  shall  enter 
upon  a new  state  of  affairs.  That  portion  of  the  public  which  sup- 
ported us,  why,  itself  knew  not,  will  listen  to  us  very  coldly ; we  shall 
nave,  as  it  were,  a new  debut ; and  then  all  is  our  own  way,  thank 
God ! for  we  have  but  to  five  the  audience,  and  to  remain  masters  of 
the  field.  I promise  you  great  success  from  that  moment,  dear  An- 
soleto;  the  charm  which  weighed  you  down  of  late,  is  dissipated. 
You  will  breathe,  thenceforth,  an  atmosphere  of  unmixed  favor  and 
sweet  praises,  and  your  powers  will  be  restored  straightways.  Re 
member  the  effect  of  your  first  appearance  at  Zustiniani’s ; you  had 
not  then  the  time  to  establish  yourself  firmly  on  that  victorious  foot- 
ing— a star,  before  which  yours  paled,  culminated  in  the  sky;  but  that 
star  has,  in  its  turn,  been  unsphered,  and  you  may  prepare  yourself 
again  with  me  to  scale  the  empyrean.” 

All  fell  out  to  the  letter,  as  Corilla  foretold  it.  For,  of  a truth,  the 
two  lovers  were  made  to  pay  very  dearly  for  the  first  few  days,  for  the 
loss  the  public  had  undergone  in  the  person  of  Consuelo.  But  the 
hardihood  which  they  exerted  in  braving  the  storm,  lasted  longer  than 
the  indignation,  which  was  too  lively  to  be  durable.  The  count  lent 
his  encouragement  to  Corilla' s efforts.  As  to  Anzoleto, — not  until  he 
had  made  every  exertion  in  vain,  to  attract  a primo  nomo  to  Venice 
at  so  advanced  a season,  when  all  the  engagements  have  been  made 
with  all  the  principal  theatres  in  Europe,  did  the  count  come  to  a de- 
cision, and  receive  him  as  his  champion  in  the  strife  which  was  about 
to  commence  between  his  theatre  and  the  public.  The  career  and 
reputation  of  that  theatre  had  been,  by  far  too  brilliant,  that  it  should 
lose  it  with  this  or  that  performer.  Nothing  of  the  nature  of  the 
present  contest  was  likely  to  affect  the  course  of  usages  so  long  estab- 
lished. All  the  boxes  had  been  hired  for  the  season ; and  the  ladies 
were  in  the  habit  of  receiving  their  visits,  and  chatting  in  them  as 
usual.  The  real  amateurs  of  music  were  out  of  sorts  for  some  time, 
but  they  were  too  few  in  number  to  produce  any  perceivable  effect. 
Moreover,  in  the  long  run,  they  got  bored  by  their  own  anger,  and 
Corilla,  having  sung  one  evening  with  unwonted  animation,  was 
unanimously  called  for.  She  reappeared,  drawing  Anzoleto  on  the 
stage  along  with  her,  although  he  had  not  been  recalled,  appearing  to 
yield  to  her  gentle  violence  with  modest  timidity.  In  a word,  before 
a month  had  elapsed,  Consuelo,  was  forgotten  like  the  lightning  which 
flashes  and  vanishes  along  a summer  sky.  Corilla  was  the  rage  as 
much  as  ever,  and  perhaps  deserved  to  be  so  more  than  ever;  for 
emulation  had  given  her  an  enthusiasm,  and  love  an  expression  of 
sentiment  which  she  had  lacked  before.  As  for  Anzoleto,  though  he 
had  got  rid  of  no  one  of  his  faults,  he  had  contrived  to  display  all  the 
unquestionable  qualities  which  he  did  possess.  His  fine  personal  ap- 
pearance captivated  the  women ; ladies  vied  for  his  presence  at  even- 
ing parties,  the  more  so  that  Corilla’s  jealousy  added  something 
piquant  to  the  coquetries  which  were  addressed  to  him.  Clorinda, 
moreover,  devolved  all  her  theatrical  resources,  that  is  to  say,  her 
full  blown  beauty  and  the  voluptuous  nonchalance  of  her  unexam- 
pled dulness,  which  was  not  without  its  attraction  for  spectators  of  s 
certain  order,  Zustiniani,  in  order  to  divert  his  mind  from  the  rea* 
disappointment  he  had  undergone,  had  made  her  his  mistress,  loaded 
„ her  with  diamonds,  and  thrust  her  forward  into  first  parts,  hoping  to 


104 


OONIUELO. 


fit  her  to  succeed  Corilla  in  that  position,  since  she  was  definitively 
encaged  at  Paris  for  the  following  season. 

Corilla  regarded  this  rivalry,  from  which  she  had  nothing  whatever 
to  apprehend,  either  present  or  future,  without  a touch  of  annoy- 
ance or  of  alarm;  she  even  took  a mischievous  pleasure  in  displaying 
the  coldly  impudent  incapacity  of  her  rival,  which  was  daunted  by  no 
difficulties. 

In  the  full  tide  of  his  prosperity  and  success,  (for  the  count  had 
given  him  a very  good  engagement,)  Anzoleto  was  weighed  down  by 
disgust  and  self-reproach,  which  prevented  his  enjoying  his  onerous 
good  fortune.  It  was  truly  pitiful  to  see  him  dragging  himself  to  re- 
hearsals, linked  to  the  arm  of  Corilla  in  her  haughty  triumph,  pale, 
languid,  handsome,  as  a man  can  be,  ridiculously  over-dressed,  worn 
out  like  one  overdone  with  adoration,  fainting  and  unbraced  among 
the  laurels  and  the  myrtles  which  he  had  so  liberally  and  so  indolently 
won.  Even  when  upon  the  stage,  when  in  the  midst  of  a scena  with 
his  fiery  mistress,  he  could  not  refrain  from  defying  her  by  his  haughty 
attitude  and  the  -superb  languor  of  his  impertinence.  When  she 
seemed  to  devour  him  with  her  eyes,  he  replied  to  the  public  by  a 
glance,  which  appeared  to  say — “ Fancy  not  that  I respond  to  ail  this 
love!  Far  from  it;  he  who  shall  rid  me  of  it,  shall  serve  me  largely.” 

In  real  truth,  Anzoleto,  having  been  corrupted  and  spoiled  by  Co- 
rilla, poured  out  upon  her  those  phials  of  selfishness  and  ingratitude, 
which  she  urged  him  to  pour  out  against  all  the  world  beside.  There 
was  but  one  true,  one  pure  sentiment  which  now  remained  in  his 
heart;  it  was  the  indestructible  love  which  he  still  cherished,  in  de- 
spite of  all  his  vices,  for  Consuelo.  He  could  divert  his  mind  from  it, 
thanks  to  his  natural  levity,  but  cure  it  he  could  not ; and  that  love 
came  back  upon  him  as  a remorse — as  a torture — in  the  midst  of  his 
guilty  excesses.  Faithless  to  Corilla,  given  up  to  numberless  intrigues 
— avenging  himself  to-day  upon  the  count  with  Corilla,  to-morrow 
amusing  himself  with  some  fashionable  beauty — the  third  day  with 
the  lowest  of  their  sex ; passing  from  mystic  appointments  to  open 
revelries,  he  seemed  struggling  to  bury  the  past  in  the  oblivion  of  the 
present.  But  in  the  midst  of  these  disorders,  a ghost  seemed  to 
haunt  him ; and  sighs  would  burst  from  his  breast,  as  he  glided  in  his 
gondola  dead  of  night,  with  his  debauched  companions,  beside  the 
dark  buildings  of  the  Corte  Minelli.  Corilla,  long  since  conquered  by 
his  cruel  treatment,  and  inclined,  as  all  base  spirits  are — to  love  the 
more  in  proportion  as  they  are  the  more  scorned  and  outraged— began 
herself  to  hate  him,  and  to  grow  weary  of  her  fatal  passion. 

One  night  as  Anzoleto  floated  with  Clorinda  through  the  streets  of 
Venice  in  his  gondola,  another  gondola,  shot  by  them  rapidly — its  ex- 
tinguished lantern  proving  its  clandestine  errand.  He  scarcely  heed- 
ed it;  but  Clorinda,  who  was  ever  on  thorns  from  her  fear  of  discov- 
ery, said  to  him — “ Let  us  go  slower;  ’tis  the  count’s  gondola;  I know 
his  barcarole.” 

“ Is  it — Oh,  then,”  cried  Anzoleto,  “ I will  overtake  him,  and  find 
out  what  infidelity  he  is  at  to-night.” 

“ No,  no ; let  us  go  back,”  cried  Clorinda.  “ His  eye — his  ear,  is  so 
quick.  Do  not  let  us  intrude  upon  his  leisure.” 

“ On ! I say,  on!  ” cried  Anzoleto  to  the  gondolier;  “ I must  over- 
take  that  gondola  ahead  of  us.” 

Spite  of  all  Clorinda’s  tears,  all  her  entreaties,  it  was  but  a second  era 
the  boats  clasped  together,  and  a burst  of  laughter  from  the  other  go rt 


tola  fell  upon  Anzoleto’s  ear.  u Ahl  this  is  fair  war — It  is  Gorilla 
enjoying  the  breeze  with  the  count.”  As  he  spoke,  Anzoleto  jumped 
to  the  bow  of  his  gondola,  snatched  the  oar  from  his  barcarole,  and 
darting  on  the  track  of  the  other  gondola,  again  grazed  its  side ; and 
whether  he  heard  his  own  name  among  Corilla’s  bursts  of  laughter, 
or  whether  he  was  indeed  mad,  he  cried  aloud,  “ Sweetest  Clorinda, 
unquestionably,  you  are  the  loveliest  and  the  dearest  of  your  sex.” 

“ I was  just  telling  Corilla  so,”  said  the  count,  coming  easily  out  of 
his  cabin,  and  approaching  the  other  barque.  “ And  now  as  we  have 
both  brought  our  excursions  to  an  end,  we  can  make  a fair  exchange, 
as  honest  folks  do  of  equally  valuable  merchandise.” 

“ Count,  you  but  do  justice  to  my  love  of  fair  play,”  replied  Anzo- 
leto,  in  the  same  tone.  “ If  he  permit  me,  I will  offei  him  my  arm, 
that  he  may  himself  escort  the  fair  Clorinda  into  his  gondola.” 

The  count  reached  out  his  arm  to  rest  upon  Anzoleto’s ; but  the 
tenor,  inflamed  by  hatred,  and  transported  with  rage,  leaped  with  all 
his  weight  upon  the  count’s  gondola  and  upset  it,  crying  with  savage 
voice — “ Signor  count,  gondola  for  gondola ! ” Then  abandoning  his 
victims  to  their  fate,  and  leaving  Clorinda  speechless  with  terror  and 
trembling  for  the  consequences  of  his  frantic  conduct,  he  gained  the 
opposite  bank  by  swimming,  took  his  course  through  the  dark  and 
tortuous  streets,  entered  his  lodging,  changed  his  clothes  in  a twink- 
ling, gathered  together  all  the  money  he  had,  left  the  house,  threw 
himself  into  the  first  shallop  wThich  was  getting  under  way  for  Trieste, 
and  snapped  his  fingers  in  triumph  as  he  saw  in  the  dawn  of  morn- 
ing, the  clock-towers  and  domes  of  Venice  sink  beneath  the  waves. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

In  the  western  range  of  the  Carpathian  mountains,  whfch  separ- 
ates Bohemia  from  Bavaria,  and  which  receives  in  these  countries  the 
name  of  the  Boehmer  Wald,  there  was  still  standing,  about  a century 
ago,  an  old  country  seat  of  immense  extent,  called,  in  consequence  of 
some  forgotten  tradition,  the  Castle  of  the  Giants. — Though  present- 
ing at  a distance  somewhat  the  appearance  of  an  ancient  fortress,  it 
was  no  more  than  a private  residence,  furnished  in  the  taste,  then 
somewhat  antiquated,  but  always  rich  and  sumptuous,  of  Louis  XIV. 
The  feudal  style  of  architecture  had  also  undergone  various  tasteful 
modifications  in  the  parts  of  the  edifice  occupied  by  the  Lords  of 
Rudolstadt,  masters  of  this  rich  domain. 

The  family  was  of  Bohemian  or,  gin,  but  had  become  naturalized  in 
Germany,  on  its  members  changing  their  name,  and  abjuring  the 
principles  of  the  Reformation,  at  the  most  frying  period  of  the  Thirty 
Years’  War.  A noble  and  valiant  ancestor,  of  inflexible  Protestant 
principles,  had  been  murdered  on  the  mountain  in  the  neighborhood 
of  his  castle,  by  the  fanatic  soldiery.  His  widow,  who  was  of  a Sax 
on  family,  saved  the  fortune  and  the  life  of  her  young  children  by  de- 
claring herself  a Catholic,  and  entrusting  to  the  Jesuits  the  education 
of  the  heirs  of  Rudolstadt.  After  two  generations  had  passed  away, 
Bohemia  being  silent  and  oppressed,  the  Austrian  power  permanently* 
established,  and  the  glory  and  misfortunes  of  the  Reformation  at  last 


108 


eoNSVKia. 


apparently  forgotten,  the  Lords  of  Rudolstadt  peacefully  practised  the 
Christian  virtues,  professed  the  Romish  faith,  and  dwelt  on  their  e» 
tates  in  unostentatious  state,  like  good  aristocrats,  and  faithful  aer 
vants  of  Maria  Theresa.  They  had  formerly  displayed  their  bravery, 
in  the  service  of  their  emperor,  Charles  VI ; but  it  was  strange  that 
young  Albert,  the  last  of  this  illustrious  and  powerful  race,  and  the  only 
son  of  Count  Christian  Rudolstadt,  had  never  borne  arms  in  the  War  of 
{Succession,  which  had  just  terminated;  and  that  he  had  reached  his 
thirtieth  year  without  having  sought  any  other  distinction  than  what 
he  inherited  from  his  birth  and  fortune.  This  unusual  course  had  in* 
spired  his  sovereign  with  suspicion  of  collusion  with  her  enemies; 
but  Count  Christian,  having  had  the  honor  to  receive  the  empress  in 
his  castle,  had  given  such  reasons  for.  the  conduct  of  his  son  as  seemed 
to  satisfy  her.  Nothing,  however,  had  transpired  of  the  conversation 
between  Maria  Theresa  and  Count  Rudolstadt.  A strange  mystery 
reigned  in  the  bosom  of  this  devout  and  beneficent  family,  which  for 
ten  years  a neighbor  had  seldom  visited ; which  no  business,  no  pleas* 
ure,  no  political  agitation,  induced  to  leave  their  domains;  which 
paid  largely  and  without  a murmur  all  the  subsidies  required  for  the 
war,  displaying  no  uneasiness  in  the  midst  of  public  danger  and  mis- 
fortune ; which  in  fine  seemed  not  to  live  after  the  same  fashion  as 
the  other  nobles,  who  viewed  them  with  distrust,  although  knowing 
nothing  of  them  but  their  praiseworthy  deeds  and  noble  conduct 
At  a loss  to  what  to  attribute  this  unsocial  and  retired  mode  of  life, 
they  accused  the  Rudolstadts  sometimes  of  avarice,  sometimes  of 
misanthropy ; but  as  their  actions  uniformly  contradicted  these  impu- 
tations, their  maligners  were  at  length  obliged  to  confine  their  re- 
proaches to  their  apathy  and  indifference.  They  asserted  that  Count 
Christian  did  not  wish  to  expose  the  life  of  his  son — the  last  of  his 
race — in  these  disastrous  wars,  and  the  empress  had,  in  exchange  for 
his  services,  accepted  a sum  of  money  sufficient  to  equip  a regiment 
of  hussars.  The  ladies  of  rank  who  had  marriageable  daughters  ad- 
mitted that  Count  Christian  had  done  well ; but  when  they  learned  the 
determination  that  he  seemed  to  entertain  of' providing  a wife  for  his 
son  in  his  own  family,  in  the  daughter  of  the  Baron  Frederick,  his 
brother — when  they  understood  that  the  young  Baroness  Amelia  had 
just  quitted  the  convent  at  Prague,  where  she  had  been  educated,  to 
reside  henceforth  with  her  cousin  in  the  Castle  of  the  Giants — these 
noble  dames  unanimously  pronounced  the  family  of  Rudolstadt  to  be 
a den  of  wolves,  each  of  whom  was  more  unsocial  and  savage  than 
the  others.  A few  devoted  servants  and  faithful  friends  alone  knew 
the  secret  of  the  family,  and  kept  it  strictly. 

This  noble  family  was  assembled  one  evening  round  a table  profuse- 
ly loaded  with  game,  and  those  substantial  dishes  with  which  our  an- 
cestors in  Slavonic  states  still  continued  to  regale  themselves  at  that 
period,  notwithstanding  the  refinements  which  the  court  of  Louis 
XV.  had  introduced  into  the  aristocratic  customs  of  a great  part  of 
Europe.  An  immense  hearth,  on  which  burned  huge  billets  of  oak, 
diffused  heat  throughout  the  large  and  gloomy  hall.  Count  Christian 
in  a loud  voice  had  just  said  grace,  to  which  the  other  members  of  the 
family  listened  standing.  Numerous  aged  and  grave  domestics,  in 
the  costume  of  the  country — viz. ; large  mamaluke  trousers,  and  long 
mustachios — moved  slowly  to  and  fro,  in  attendance  on  their  honored 
masters.  The  chaplain  of  the  castle  was  seated  on  the  right  of  the 
count  the  young  baroness  on  his  left— “ next  his  heart,”  as  he  waa 


GONSUBLO, 


107 


wont  to  §ay,  with  austere  and  paternal  gallantry.  The  Baron  Fred- 
erick, his  Junior  brother,  whom  he  always  called  his  “ young t brother,” 
from  his  being  more  than  sixty  years  old,  was  seated  opposite.  The 
Canoness  Wenceshrwa  of  Rudolstadt,  his  eldest  sister,  a venerable 
lady  of  seventy,  afflicted  with  an  enormous  hump,  and  a frightful 
leanness,  took  her  place  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table ; while  Count 
Albert,  the  son  of  Count  Christian,  the  betrothed  of  Amelia,  and  the 
last  of  the  Rudolstadts,  came  forward,  pale  and  melancholy,  to  seat 
himself  at  the  other  end,  opposite  his  noble  aunt. 

Of  all  these  silent  personages,  Albert  was  certainly  the  one  least  dis- 
posed and  least  accustomed  to  impart  animation  to  the  others.  The 
chaplain  was  so  devoted  to  his  masters,  and  so  reverential  towards  the 
head  of  the  family  in  particular,  that  he  never  opened  his  mouth  to 
speak  unless  encouraged  to  do  so  by  a look  from  Count  Christian ; 
and  the  latter  was  of  so  calm  and  reserved  a disposition  that  he  sel- 
dom required  to  seek  from  others  a relief  from  his  own  thoughts. 

Baron  Frederick  was  of  a less  thoughtful  character  and  more  active 
temperament,  but  he  was  by  no  means  remarkable  for  animation. — 
Although  mild  and  benevolent  as  his  eldest  brother,*  he  had  less  intel- 
ligence and  less  enthusiam.  His  devotion  was  a matter  of  custom  and 
politeness.  His  only  passion  was  a love  for  the  chase,  in  which  he 
spent  almost  all  his  time,  going  out  each  morning  and  returning  each 
evening,  ruddy  with  exercise,  out  of  breath,  and  hungry.  He  ate  for 
ten,  drank  for  thirty,  and  even  showed  some  sparks  of  animation 
when  relating  how  his  dog  Sapphire  had  started  the  hare,  how  Pan- 
ther had  unkenneled  the  wolf,  or  how  his  falcon  Attila’  had  taken 
flight ; and  when  the  company  had  listened  to  all  this  with  inexhaus- 
tible patience,  he  dozed  over  quietly  near  the  fire  in  a great  black 
leathern  arm-chair,  and  enjoyed  his  nap  until  his  daughter  came  to 
warn  him  that  the  hour  for  retiring  was  about  to  strike. 

The  canoness  was  the  most  conversable  of  the  party.  She  might 
even  be  called  chatty,  for  she  discussed  with  the  chaplain,  two  or 
three  times  a week,  for  an  hour  at  a stretch,  sundry  knotty  points 
touching  the  genealogy  of  Bohemian,  Hungarian,  and  Saxon  families, 
the  names  and  biographies  of  whom,  from  kings  down  to  simple  gen- 
tlemen, she  had  on  her  finger  ends. 

As  for  Count  Albert,  there  was  something  repelling  and  solenm  in 
his  exterior,  as  if  each  of  his  gestures  had  been^prophetic,  each  of  his 
sentences  oracular  to  the  rest  of  the  family. — By  a singular  peculiarity 
inexplicable  to  any  one  not  acquainted  with  the  secret  of  the  mansion, 
as  soon  as  he  opened  his  lips,  which  did  not  happen  once  in  twenty- 
four  hours,  the  eyes  of  his  friends  and  domestics  were  turned  upon 
him ; and  there  was  apparent  on  every  face  a ieep  anxiety,  a painful 
and  affectionate  solicitude ; always  excepting  that  of  the  young  Ame- 
lia, who  listened  to  him  with  a sort  of  ironical  impatience,  and  who 
alone  ventured  to  reply,  with  the  gay  or  sarcastic  familiarity  which 
her  fancy  prompted. 

This  young  girl,  exquisitely  fair,  of  a blooming  complexion,  lively, 
and  well  formed,  was  a little  pearl  of  beauty ; and  when  her  waiting- 
maid  told  her  so,  in  order  to  console  her  for  her  cheerless  mode  of 
life,  “ Alas  I”  the  youig  girl  would  reply,  “ I am  a pearl  shut  up  in 
an  oyster,  of  which  this  frightful  Castle  of  the  Giants  is  the  shell.” 
This  will  serve  to  show  the  reader  what  sort  of  a petulant  bird  was 
•hut  up  in  so  gloomy  a cage. 

On  thU  evening  the  solemn  silence  which  weighed  down  the  family 


109 


eCKBUXLO, 


particularly  during  the  first  course  (for  the  two  old  gentlemen,  the 
canoness,  and  the  chaplain  were  p.ossessed  of  a solidity  and  regularity 
ef  appetite  which  never  failed),  was  interrupted  by  Count  Albert 

“ What  frightful  weather,”  said  he,  with  a profound  sigh. 

Every  one  looked  at  him  with  surprise ; for  if  the  weather  had  bo* 
come  gloomy  and  threatening  during  the  hour  they  hai  been  shut  up 
In  the  interior  of  the  castle,  nobody  could  have  perceived  it,  since  the 
thick  shutters  were  closed.  Everything  was  calm  without  and  within, 
and  nothing  announced  an  approaching  tempest. 

Nobody,  however,  ventured  to  contradict  Albert ; and  Amelia  con- 
tented herself  with  shrugging  her  shoulders,  while  the  clatter  of 
knives  and  forks,  and  the  removal  of  the  dishes  by  the  servants,  pro- 
ceeded, after  a moment’s  interruption,  as  before. 

“ Do  not  you  hear  the  wind  roaring  amid  the  pines  of  the  Boehmer 
Wald,  and  the.voice  of  the  torrent  sounding  in  your  ears?  ” continued 
Albert,  in  a louder  voice,  and  with  a fixed  gaze  at  his  father. 

Count  Christian  was  silent.  The  baron,  in  his  quiet  way,  replied, 
without  removing  his  eyes  from  his  venison,  which  he  hewed  with 
athletic  hand,  as  if  it  had  been  a lump  of  granite ; “ yes,  we  had  wind 
and  rain  together  at  sunset,  and  I should  not  be  surprised  were  the 
weather  to  change  to-morrow.” 

Albert  smiled  in  his  strange  manner,  and  everything  again  became 
still ; but  five  iginutes  had  hardly  elapsed  when  a furious  blast  shook 
the  lofty  casements,  howled  wildly  around  the  old  walls,  lashing  the 
waters  of  the  moat  as  with  a whip,  and  died  away  on  the  mountain 
tops  with  a sound  so  plaintive,  that  every  face,  with  the  exception  of 
Count  Albert’s,  who  again  smiled  with  the  same  indefinable  expres- 
sion, grew  pale. 

“ At  this  very  instant,”  said  he,  “ the  storm  drives  a stranger  to- 
wards our  castle.  You  would  do  well,  Sir  Chaplain,  to  pray  for  those 
who  travel  beneath  the  tempest,  amid  these  rude  mountains.” 

“ I hourly  pray  from  my  very  soul,”  replied  the  trembling  chaplain, 
u for  those  who  are  cast  on  the  rude  paths  of  life  amid  the  tempests 
of  human  passions.” 

“ Do  not  reply,  Mr.  Chaplain,”  said  Amelia,  without  regarding  the 
looks  or  signs  which  warned  her  on  every  side  not  to  continue  the 
conversation.  “ You  know  very  well  that  my  cousin  likes  to  torment 
people  with  his  enigmas.  For  my  part,  I never  think  of  finding  them 
out.” 

Count  Albert  paid  no  more  attention  to  the  railleries  of  his  cousin 
than  she  appeared  to  pay  to  his  discourse.  He  leaned  an  elbow  on 
his  plate,  which  almost  always  remained  empty  and  unused  before 
him,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  damask  table-cloth,  as  if  making  a 
calculation  of  the  ornaments  on  the  pattern,  though  all  the  while  ab- 
sorbed in  a reverie. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A furious  tempest  raged  d iring  the  supper,  which  meal  lasted  just 
two  hours,  neither  more  nor  less,  even  on  fast  days,  which  were  reli- 
giously observed,  but  which  never  prevented  the  count  from  indulging 
Eis  customary  habits,  no  less  sacred  to  him  than  the  usages  of  the  R»» 


CdHSUIL* 


101 


mifth  Church.  Storms  were  too  frequent  in  these  mountains,  and  the 
immense  forests  which  then  covered  their  sides  imparted  to  the  echoes 
a character  too  well  known  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  castle,  to  occar 
sion  them  even  a passing  emotion.  Nevertheless,  the  unusual  agita- 
tion of  Count  Albert  communicated  itself  to  the  rest  of  the  family,  and 
the  baron,  disturbed  in  the  usual  current  of  his  reflections,  might 
have  evinced  some  dissatisfaction,  had  it  been  possible  for  his  imper- 
turbable placidity  to  be  for  a moment  ruffled.  He  contented  himself 
with  sighing  deeply,  when  a frightful  peal  of  thunder,  occurring  with 
the  second  remove,  caused  the  carver  to  miss  the  choice  morsel  of 
boar’s  ham,  which  he  was  just  then  engaged  in  detaching. 

“ It  cannot  be  helped,”  said  the  baron,  directing  a compassionating 
smile  towards  the  poor  carver,  who  was  quite  downcast  with  his  mis- 
hap. 

“ Yes,  uncle,  you  are  right,”  exclaimed  Count  Albert,  in  a loud 
voice,  and  rising  to  his  feet ; “ it  cannot  be  helped.  The  Hussite  ii 
down;  the  lightning  consumes  it;  Spring  will  revisit  its  foliage  no 
more.” 

“ What  say  you,  my  son  ? ” asked  the  old  count,  in  a melancholy 
tone.  “ Do  you  speak  of  the  huge  oak  of  the  Schreckenstein  ? ” * 

“ Yes,  father ; I speak  of  the  great  oak  to  whose  branches  we  hung 
up  some  twenty  monks  the  other  day.” 

“ He  mistakes  centuries  for  weeks  just  now,”  said  the  canoness  in 
a low  voice,  while  she  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  “ My  dear  child,” 
she  continued,  turning  to  her  nephew,  “ if  you  have  really  seen  what 
has  happened,  or  what  is  about  to  happen,  in  a dream,  as  has  more 
than  once  been  the  case,  this  miserable  withered  oak,  considering  the 
sad  recollections  associated  with  the  rock  it  shaded,  will  be  no  great 
loss.” 

“ As  for  me,”  exclaimed  Amelia,  “ I am  delighted  that  the  storm 
has  rid  us  of  that  gibbet,  with  its  long,  frightful  skeleton  arms,  and  its 
red  trunk  which  seemed  to  ooze  out  blood.  I jiever  passed  beneath 
it  when  the  breeze  of  evening  moved  amid  its  foliage,  without  hear- 
ing sighs  as  if  of  agony,  and  commending  my  soul  to  God  while  I 
^ turned  away  and  fled.” 

“ Amelia,”  replied  the  count,  who  just  now  appeared  to  hear  her 
words  for  the  first  time  perhaps  for  days,  “ you  did  well  not  to  remain 
beneath  the  Hussite  as  I did  for  hours,  and  even  entire  nights.  You 
would  have  seen  and  heard  things  which  would  have  chilled  you  with 
terror  and  never  have  left  your  memory.” 
u Pray,  be  silent,”  cried  the  young  baroness,  starting  and  moving 
from- the  table  where  Albert  was  leaning:  “ I cannot  imagine  what 
pleasure  you  take  in  terrifying  others  every  time  you  open  your  Ups.” 
“ Would  to  Heaven,  dear  Amelia,”  said  the  old  baron,  mildly,  “it 
were  indeed  but  an  amusement  which  your  cousin  takes  in  uttering 
such  things.” 

“ No,  my  father;  I speak  in  all  seriousness.  The  oak  of  the  Stone 
of  Terror  is  overthrown,  cleft  in  pieces.  You  may  send  the  wood- 
cutters to-morrow  to  remove  it.  I shall  plant  a cypress  in  its  place, 
which  I shall  name,  not  the  Hussite,  but  the  Penitent,  and  the  Stone 
of  Terror  shall  be  called  the  Stone  of  Expiation.” 

“Enough,  enough,  my  son!”  exclaimed  the  agonized  old  man. 
* Banish  these  melancholy  images,  and  leave  it  to  God  to  judge  t he 
actions  of  mem” 

• " Stoa#  ©f  Terror,”— « unfrequ«&tly  used  Im  Hum  ragtoaa 


no 


66H  SUB10< 


“They  have  disappeared, father— annihilated  with  the  hnp.ements 
of  torture  which  the  breath  of  the  storm  and  the  fire  of  Heaven  hava 
Mattered  in  the  dust.  In  place  of  pendent  skeletons,  fruits  and  flow* 
ere  rock  themselves  amid  the  zephyrs  on  the  new  branches ; and  in 
place  of  the  man  in  black  who  nightly  lit  up  the  flames  beside  the  stake, 
I see  a pure  celestial  soul,  which  hovers  over  my  head  and  yours.  The 
storm  is  gone — the  danger  over ; those  who  travelled  are  in  shelter ; 
my  soul  is  in  peace,  the  period  of  expiation  draws  nigh,  and  I am  about 
to  be  born  again.” 

“ May  what  you  say,  O well -beloved  child,  prove  true!  ” said  Chris* 
tian,  with  extreme  tenderness ; “ and  may  you  be  freed  from  the  phan* 
toms  which  trouble  your  repose.  Heaven  grant  me  this  blessing,  and 
restore  peace,  and  hope,  and  light  to  my  son ! ” 

Before  the  old  man  had  finished  speaking,  Albert  leaned  forward, 
and  appeared  to  fall  into  a tranquil  slumber. 

“'What  means  this?”  broke  in  the  young  baroness;  “ what  do  1 
see  ? — Albert  sleeping  at  table  ? Very  gallant,  truly ! ” 

“ This  deep  and  sudden  sleep,”  said  tlie  chaplain,  surveying  tht 
young  man  with  intense  interest,  “ is  a favorable  crisis,  which  lead* 
me  to  look  forward  to  a happy  change,  for  a time  at  least,  in  his  situa- 
tion.” 

“ Let  no  one  speak  to  him,  or  attempt  to  arouse  him,”  exclaimed 
Count  Christian. 

“Merciful  Heaven,”  prayed  the  canoness,  with  clasped  hand*, 
“ realize  this  prediction,  and  let  his  thirtieth  year  be  that  of  hi*  re- 
covery 1 ” 

“ Amen ! ” added  the  chaplain  devoutly.  “ Let  us  raise  our  heart* 
with  thanks  to  the  God  of  Mercy  for  the  food  which  he  has  given  us, 
and  entreat  him  to  deliver  this  noble  youth,  the  object  of  so  much  •©- 
leitude.” 

They  rose  for  grace,  and  every  one  remained  standing,  absorbed  in 
prayer,  for  the  last  of  the  Budolstadts.  As  for  the  old  count,  tear* 
streamed  down  his  withered  cheeks.  He  then  gawe  orders  to  hi* 
faithful  servants  to  convey  his  son  to  his  apartment,  when  Baron 
Frederick,  considering  how  he  could  best  display  his  devotion  toward* 
his  nephew,  observed  with  childish  satisfaction;  “Dear  brother,  a 
good  idea  has  occurred  to  me.  If  your  son  awakens  in  the  seclusion 
of  his  chamber,  while  digestion  is  going  on,  bad  dreams  may  assail 
him.  Bring  him  to  the  saloon,  and  place  him  in  my  large  arm-chair. 
It  is  the  best  one  for  sleeping  in  the  whole  house.  He  will  be  better 
there  than  in  bed,  and  when  he  awakens  he  will  find  a good  fire  and 
friends  to  cheer  his  heart.” 

“ You  are  right,  brother,”  replied  Christian,  “ let  us  bear  him  to  the 
saloon  and  place  him  on  the  large  sofa.”  y 

“ It  is  wrong  to  sleep  lying  after  dinner,”  continued  the  baron;  u£ 
believe,  brother,  that  I am  aware  of  that  from  experience.  Let  him 
have  my  arm-chair — yes,  my  arm-chair  is  the  thing.” 

Christian  very  well  knew  that  were  he  to  refuse  his  brother’s  often 
it  would  vex  and  annoy  him : the  young  count  was  therefore  propped 
up  in  the  hunter’s  leathern  chair,  but  he  remained  quite  insensible  to 
the  change,  so  sound  was  his  sleep.  The  baron  placed  himself  on  an- 
other seat,  and  warming  his  legs  before  a fire  worthy  of  the  times  of 
old,  smiled  with  a triumphant  air  whenever  the  chaplain  observed 
that  Albert’s  repose  would  assuredly  ha^e  happy  results.  The  good 
*oul  proposed  to  give  up  his  i ap  as  weU  as  his  chair,  and  to  join  the 


60H SU2L0 


111 


fkmily  in  watching  over  tlie  youth ; but  aftei  lome  quarter  of  an  hour 
he  was  so  much  at  ease  that  he  began  to  sno  e after  so  lusty  a faihioi 
as  to  drown  the  last  faint  and  now  far  distant  gusts  of  the  storm. 

The  castle  bell,  which  only  rang  on  extraordinary  occasions,  was 
now  heard,  and  old  Hans,  the  head  domestic,  entered  shortly  after- 
wards with  a letter,  which  he  presented  to  Count  Christian  without 
saying  a word.  He  then  retired  into  an  adjoining  apartment  to  await 
his  master’s  commands.  Christian  opened  the  letter,  cast  his  eyes  cn 
the  signature,  and  handed  the  paper  to  the  young  baroness,  with  a 
request  that  she  would  peruse  the  contents.  Curious  and  excited, 
Amelia  approached  a candle,  and  read  as  follows : — 

u tt.lustbious  and  well-beloved  Lord  Count 

*‘Your  Excellency  has  conferred  on  me  the  favor  of  asking  a ser- 
vice at  my  hands.  This,  indeed,  is  to  confer  a greater  favor  than  all 
those  which  I have  already  received,  and  of  which  my  heart  fondly 
cherishes  the  remembrance.  Despite  my  anxiety  to  execute  your  es- 
teemed orders,  I did  not  hope  to  find  so  promptly  and  so  suitably  the 
individual  that  was  required;  but  favorable  circumstances  having 
concurred  to  an  unforseen  extent  in  aiding  me  to  fulfill  the  desires  of 
your  Highness,  I hasten  to  send  a young  person  who  realizes  at  least 
in  part,  the  required  conditions.  I therefore  send  her  only  provision- 
ally, that  your  amiable  and  illustrious  niece  may  not  too  impatiently 
await  a more  satisfactory  termination  to  my  researches  and  proceed- 
ings. 

“ The  individual  who  has  the  honor  to  present  this  is  my  pupil,  anc 
in  a measure  my  adopted  child ; she  will  prove,  as  the  amiable  baron- 
ess has  desired,  an  agreeable  and  obliging  companion,  as  well  as  a 
competent  musical  instructress.  In  other  respects,  she  does  not  pos- 
sess the  necessary  information  for  a governess.  She  speaks  several 
languages,  though  hardly  sufficiently  acquainted  with  them  perhaps 
to  teach  them.  Music  she  knows  thoroughly,  and  she  sings  remarka- 
bly well.  You  will  be  pleased  with  her  talents,  her  voice,  her  de- 
meanor, and  not  less  so  with  the  sweetness  and  dignity  of  her  char- 
acter. Your  Highness  may  admit  her  into  your  circle  without  risk  of 
her  infringing  in  any  way  on  etiquette,  or  affording  any  evidence  of 
low  tastes.  She  wishes  to  remain  free  as  regards  your  noble  family, 
and  therefore  Will  accept  no  salary.  In  short,  it  is  neither  as  a du- 
enna nor  as  a servant,  but  as  companion  and  friend  to  the  amiable 
baroness,  that  she  appears : just  as  that  lady  did  me  the  honor  to 
mention  in  the  gracious  post  scriptum  which  she  added  to  your  Excel- 
lency’s communication. 

“ Signor  Corner  who  has  been  appointed  ambassador  to  Austria, 
awaits  the  orders  for  his  departure ; but  these  he  thinks  will  not  ar- 
rive before  two  months.  Signora  Corner,  his  worthy  spouse  and  my 
generous  pupil,  would  have  me  accompany  them  to  Vienna,  where 
she  thinks  I should  enjoy  a happier  career.  Without  perhaps  agree- 
ing with  her  in  this,  I have  acceded  to  her  kind  offers,  desirous  as  I 
am  to  abandon  Venice,  where  I have  only  experienced  annoyance, 
deception,  and  reverses.  I long  to  revisit  the  noble  German  lard, 
where  I have  seen  so  many  happy  days,  and  renew  my  intimacy  with 
the  venerable  friends,  left  there.  Your  Highness  holds  the  first  place 
m this  old,  worn-out,  yet  not  wholly  chilled  heart,  since  it  is  actuated 
by  6temal  affection  and  deepest  gratitude.  To  you,  therefore,  illustri- 
ous signor,  do  I commend  and  confide  my  adopted  child,  request  ug 


in 


60N  SUEL& 


on  her  behalf  hospitality,  protection,  and  favor.  She  will  repay  yoai 
goodness  by  her  zeal  and  attention  to  the  young  baroness.  In  three 
months  I shall  come  for  her,  and  offer  in  her  place  a teacher  who 
may  contract  a more  permanent  engagement. 

“ Awaiting  the  day  on  which  I may  once  more  press  the  hand  ou 
one  of  the  best  of  men,  I presume  to  declare  myself,  with  respect  and 
pride,  the  most  humble  and  devoted  of  the  friends  and  servants  of  your 
Highness,  chiarissima,  stimatissima,  illustrissima. 

Nicolas  Porpora. 

“ Chapel  Masterf  Composery  and  Professor  of  Vocal  MusU 
* Venice,  the of 17—.” 

Amelia  sprang  up  with  joy  on  perusing  this  letter,  while  the  oh 
count,  much  affected,  repeated — “ Worthy  Porpora!  respectable  man  I 
excellent  friend ! ” 

“ Certainly,  certainly,”  exclaimed  the  Canoness  Wenceslawa,  divided 
between  the  dread  of  deranging  their  family  usages  and  the  desire  of 
displaying  the  duties  of  hospitality  towards  a stranger,  “ wre  must  re- 
ceive and  treat  her  well,  provided  she  do  not  become  weary  of  us  here.” 

“But,  uncle,  where  is  this  precious  mistress  and  future  friend?” 
exclaimed  the  young  baroness,  without  attending  to  her  aunt’s  reflec- 
tions. “ Surely  she  will  shortly  be  here  in  person.  I await  her  with 
impatience.” 

Count  Christian  rang.  “ Hans,”  said  he,  “ by  whom  was  this  de- 
livered ? ” 

“ By  a lady,  most  gracious  lord  and  master.” 

“ Where  is  she  ? ” exclaimed  Amelia. 

“ In  her  post-carriage  at  the  drawbridge.” 

“ And  you  have  left  her  to  perish  outside,  instead  of  introducinf 
her  at  once  ? ” 

“Yes,  madam;  I took  the  letter,  but  forbade  the  postilion  ta 
slacken  rein  or  take  foot  out  of  the  stirrup.  I also  raised  the  bridge 
behind  me  until  I should  have  delivered  the  letter  to  my  master.” 

“ But  it  is  unpardonable,  absffrd,  to  make  guests  wait  outside  in 
such  weather.  Would  nbt  any  one  think  we  were  in  a fortress,  and 
that  we  take  every  one  who  comes  for  an  enemy  ? Speed  away  then, 
Hans.” 

Hans  remained  motionless  as  a statue.  His  eyes  alone  expressed 
regret  that  he  could  not  obey  the  wishes  of  his*  young  mistress ; but 
a cannon-ball  whizzing  past  his  ear  would  not  have  deranged  by  a 
hair’s-b read tli  the  impassive  attitude  with  which  he  awaited  the  sov- 
ereign orders  of  his  old  master. 

“ The  faithful  Hans,  my  child,”  said  the  baron  slowly,  “ knows 
nothing  but  his  duty  and  the  word  of  command.  Now  then,  Han$ 
open  the  gates  and  lower  the  bridge.  Let  every  one  light  torches 
and  bid  the  stranger  welcome.” 

Hans  evinced  no  surprise  in  being  ordered  to  usher  the  unknown 
into  a house  where  the  nearest  and  best  friends  were  only  admitted 
after  tedious  precautions.  The  canoness  proceeded  to  give  direction! 
for  supper.  Amelia  would  have  set  out  for  the  drawbridge;  but  her 
uncle,  holding  himself  bound  in  honor  to  meet  his  guest  there,  offered 
his  arm  to  his  niece,  and  the  impatient  baroness  was  obliged  to  pro- 
ceed msyestically  to  the  castle  gate,  where  the  wandering  fugitive 
Consuelo  had  already  alighted. 


COJPfBUELO, 


119 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Dubing  the  three  months  that  had  elapsed  since  the  Baroness 
Amelia  had  taken  it  into  her  head  to  have  a companion,  less  to  in- 
struct her  than  to  solace  her  weariness,  she  had  in  fancy  pictured  to 
herself  a hundred  times  the  form  and  features  of  her  future  friend. 
Aware  of  Porpora’s  crusty  humor,  she  feared  he  would  send  some 
severe  and  pedantic  governess.  She  had  therefore  secretly  written  to 
him  to  say  (as  if  her  desires  were  not  law  to  her  doting  relatives,)  that 
she  would  receive  no  one  past  twenty-five.  On  reading  Porpora’s 
answer  she  was  so  transported  with  joy  that  she  forthwith  sketched 
in  imagination  a complete  portrait  of  the  young  musician — the  adopt- 
ed child  of  the  professor,  young,  and  a Venetian — that  is  to  say,  in 
Amelia’s  eyes,  made  expressly  for  herself,  and  after  her  own  image. 

She  was  somewhat  disconcerted,  therefore  when,  instead  of  the 
blooming,  saucy  girl  that  her  fancy  had  drawn,  she  beheld  a pale,  mel- 
ancholy, and  embarrassed  young  person ; for,  in  addition  to  the  pro- 
found grief  with  which  her  poor  heart  was  overwhelmed,  and  the  fa- 
tigue of  a long  and  rapid  journey,  a fearful  and  almost  fatal  impres- 
sion had  been  made  on  Consuelo’s  mind  by  the  vast  pine  forest  tossed 
by  the  tempest,  the  dark  night  illuminated  at  intervals  by  livid  flashes 
of  lightning,  and,  above  all,  by  the  aspect  of  this  grim  castle,  to  which 
the  howlings  of  the  baron’s  kennel  and  the  light  of  the  torches  borne 
by  the  servants,  lent  a strange  and  ghastly  effect.  What  a contrast 
with  the  flrmamento  lueido  of  Marcello— the  harmonious  silence  of  the 
nights  at  Venice — the  confiding  liberty  of  her  former  life,  passed  in  the 
bosom  of  love  and  joyous  poesy  I When  the  carriage  had  slowly 
passed  over  the  drawbridge,  which  sounded  hollow  under  the  horses’ 
feet,  aQd  the  portcullis  fell  with  a startling  clang,  it  seemed  to  her  as 
if  she  had  entered  the  portals  of  the  “ Inferno  ” of  Dante ; and,  seized 
with  terror,  she  recommended  her  soul  to  God. 

.Her  countenance  therefore  showed  the  symptoms  of  extreme  agita- 
tion when  she  presented  herself  before  her  hosts ; and  the  aspect  of 
Count  Christian,  his  tall,  wasted  figure,  worn  at  once  by  age  and  vex- 
ation, and  dressed  in  his  ancient  costume,  completed  her  dismay. 
She  imagined  she  beheld  the  spectre  of  some  ancient  nobleman  of 
the  middle  ages ; and  looking  upon  everything  that  surrounded  ker 
as  a dream,  she  drew  back,  uttering  an  exclamation  of  terror. 

The  old  count,  attributing  her  hesitation  and  paleness  to  the  jolting 
of  the  carriage  and  the  fatigue  of  the  journey,  offered  his  arm  to  as- 
sist her  in  mounting  the  steps,  endeavoring  at  the  same  time  to  utter 
some  kind  and  polite  expressions.  But  the  worthy  man,  on  whom 
Nature  had  bestowed  a cold  and  reserved  exterior,  had  become,  dur- 
ing so  long  a period  of  absolute  retirement,  such  a stranger  to  the 
usages  and  conventional  courtesies  of  the  world,  that  this  timidity  was 
redoubled ; and  under  a grave  and  severe  aspect  he  concealed  the  hes 
itation  and  confusion  of  a child.  The  obligation  which  he  considered 
himself  under  to  speak  Italian,  a language  which  he  had  formerly 
known  tolerably  well,  but  which  he  had  almost  forgotten,  only  added 
to  his  embarrassment ; and  he  could  merely  stammer  out  a few  words, 
which  Consuelo  heard  with  difficulty,  and  which  she  took  for  the  un- 
known and  mysterious  language  of  the  Shades. 

Amelia,  who  had  intended  to  throw  herself  upon  Consuelo’s  neek, 
7 


114 


CONSUELO. 


and  at  once  npproj  riate  her  to  herself,  had  nothing  to  say — such  is 
the  reserve  imparted,  as  f by  contagion,  even  to  the  boldest  natures, 
when  the  timidity  of  others  seems  to  shun  their  advances. 

Consuelo  was  introduced  into  the  great  hall  where  the>  had  supped. 
The  count,  divided  between  the  wish  to  do  her  honor  and  the  fear  of 
letting  her  see  his  son  while  buried  in  his  morbid  sleep,  paused  and 
hesitated;  and  Consuelo,  trembling  and  feeling  her  knees  give  way 
under  her,  sank  into  the  nearest  seat. 

“ Uncle,”  said  Amelia,  seeing  the  embarrassment  of*  the  count,  “ I 
think  it  would  be  better  to  receive  the  signora  here.  “ It  is  warmer 
than  in  the  great  saloon,  and  she  must  be  frozen  by  the  wintry  wind 
of  our  mountains.  I am  grieved  to  see  her  so  overcome  with  fatigue, 
and  I am  sure  that  she  requires  a good  supper  and  a sound  sleep  much 
more  than  our  ceremonies.  Is  it  not  true,  my  dear  signora?  ” added 
she,  gaining  courage  enough  to  press  gently  with  her  plump  and  pret- 
ty fingers  the  powerless  arm  of  Consuelo.  i 

Her  lively  voice,  and  the  German  accent  with  which  die  pronounced 
her  Italian,  reassured  Consuelo.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  charming 
countenance  of  the  young  baroness,  and,  looks  once  exchanged,  re- 
serve and  timidity  were  alike  banished.  The  traveller  understood 
immediately  that  this’  was  her  pupil,  and  that  tins  enchanting  face  at 
least  was  not  that  of  a spectre.  She  gratefully  received  all  the  atten- 
tions offered  her  by  Amelia,  approached  the  fire,  allowed  her  cloak  to 
be  taken  off,  accepted  the  offer  of  supper,  although  she  was  not  the 
least  hungry ; and,  more  and  more  reassured  by  the  kindness  of  her 
young  hostess,  she  found  at  length  the  faculties  of  seeing,  hearing, 
and  replying. 

Whilst  the  domestics  served  supper,  the  conversation  naturally 
turned  on  Porpcra,  and  Consuelo  was  delighted  to  hear  the  old  count 
speak  of  him  as  his  friend,  his  equal — almost  as  his  superior.  Then 
they  talked  of  Consuelo’s  journey,  the  route  by  which  she  had  come, 
and  the  storm  which  must  have  terrified  her.  “ We  are  accustomed 
at  Venice,”  replied  Consuelo,  “‘to  tempests  still  more  sudden  and 
perilous ; for  in  our  gondolas,  in  passing  from  one  part  of  the  city  to 
another,  we  are  often  threatened  with  shipwreck  even  at  our  very 
thresholds.  The  water  which  serves  us  instead 'of  paved  streets, 
swells  and  foams  like  the  waves  of  the  sea,  dashing  our  frail  barks 
with  such  violence  against  the  walls,  that  they  are  in  danger  of  de- 
struction before  we  have  time  to  land.  Nevertheless,  although  I have 
frequently  witnessed  such  occurrences,  and  am  not  naturally  very 
timid,  I was  more  terrified  this  evening  than  I have  ever  been  before, 
by  the  fall  of  a huge  tree,  uprooted  by  the  tempest  in  the  mountains 
and  crashing  across  our  path.  The  horses  reared  upright,  while  the 
postilion  in  terror  exclaimed — i It  is  the  Tree  of  Misfortune  I — it  is  the 
Hussite  which  has  fallen ! 9 Can  you  explain  what  that  means,  Sig- 
nora Baronessa  f 99 

Neither  the  count  nor  Amelia  attempted  to  reply  to  this  question; 
they  trembled  while  they  looked  at  each  other.  “ My  son  was  not  de- 
ceived,” said  the  old  man.  “ Strange  I strange  in  truth ! ” 

And  excited  by  his  solicitude  for  Albert,  he  left  the  saloon  to  rejoin 
him,  while  Amelia,  clasping  her  hands,  murmured:  “ There  is  magic 
here,  and  the  devil  in  presence  bodily.” 

These  strange  remarks  re-awakened  the  superstitious  feeling  which 
Consuelo  had  experienced  on  entering  the  castle  of  Rudolstadt.  The 
sudden  paleness  of  Amelia,  the  solemn  silence  of  the  ild  servants  in 


, CON  S V E t O.  114 

their  red  liveries— whose  square  bulky  figures  and  whose  lack-lustra 
eyes,  which  their  long  servitude  seemed  to  have  deprived  of  all  sense 
and  expression,  appeared  each  the  counterpart  of  his  neighbors — tha 
immense  hall  wainscotted  with  black  oak,  whose  gloom  a chandelier 
loaded  with  lighted  candles  did  not  suffice  to  dissipate ; the  cries  of 
tlie  screech-owl,  which  had  recommenced  its  flight  round  the  castle,  the 
storm  being  over  ; even  the  family  portraits  and  the  huge  heads  of 
stags  and  boars  carved  in  relief  on  the  wainscotting— all  awakened 
emotions  of  a gloomy  cast  that  she  was  unable  to  shake  off.  The  ob- 
servations of  the  young  baroness  were  not  very  cheering.  “ My  dear 
signora, ! ” said  she,  hastening  to^assist  her,  “ you  must  be  prepared  to 
meet  here  things  strange,  inexplicable,  often  unpleasant,  sometimes 
evea  frightful;  true  scenes  of  romance  which  no  one  would  believe  if 
you  related  them,  and  on  which  you  must  pledge  your  honor  to  be 
silent  forever.” 

While  the  baroness  was  thus  speaking  the  door  opened  slowly,  and 
the  Canoness  Wenceslawa,  with  her  hump,  her  angular  figure,  and 
severe  attire,  the  effect  of  which  was  heightened  by  the  decorations 
of  her  order  which  she  never  laid  aside,  entered  the  apartment  with 
an  air  more  affably  majestic  than  she  had  ever  worn  since  the  period 
when  the  Empress  Maria  Theresa,  returning  from  her  expedition  to 
Hungary,  had  conferred  on  the  castle  the  unheard-of  honor  of  taking 
there  a glass  of  hippocras  and  an  hour’s  repose.  She  advanced  to- 
wards Consuelo,  and  after  a couple  of  courtesies  and  a harangue  in 
German,  which  she  had  apparently  learned  by  heart,  proceeded  to 
kiss  her  forehead.  The  poor  girl,  cold  as  marble,  received  what  she 
considered  a death  salute,  and  murmured  some  inaudible  reply. 

When  the  canoness  had  returned  to  the  saloon,  for  she  saw  that 
she  rather  frightened  the  stranger  than  otherwise,  Amelia  burst  into 
laughter  long  and  loud. 

“By  my  faith,”  said  she  to  her  companion,  “I  dare  swear  you 
thought  you  saw  the  ghost  of  Queen  Libussa;  but  calm  yourself;  it 
is  my  aunt,  and  the  best  and  most  tiresome  of  women.” 

Hardly  had  Consuelo  recovered  from  this  emotion  when  she  heard 
the  creaking  of  great  Hungarian  boots  behind  her.  A heavy  and 
measured  step  shook  the  floor,  and  a man  with  a face  so  massive,  red, 
and  square,  that  those  of  the  servants  appeared  pale  and  aristocratic 
beside  it,  traversed  the  hall  in  profound  silence,  and  went  out  by  the 
great  door  which  the  valets  respectfully  opened  for  him.  Fresh 
shuddering  on  Consuelo’s  part,  fresh  laughter  on  Amelia’s  followed. 

“ This,”  said  she,  “ is  Baron  Rudolstadt,  the  greatest  hunter,  the 
most  unparalleled  sleeper,  and  the  best  of  fathers.  His  nap  in  the 
saloon  is  concluded.  At  nine  he  rises  from  his  chair,  without  on  that 
account  awaking,  walks  across  this  hall  without  seeing  or  hearing 
anything,  retires  to  rest,  and  wakes  with  the  dawn , alert,  active,  vig- 
orous a9  if  he  were  still  young,  and  bent  on  pursuing  the  chase  anew 
with  falcon,  hound,  and  horse.” 

Hardly  had  she  concluded  when  the  chaplain  passed.  He  was 
•tout,  short,  and  pale  as  a dropsical  patient.  A life  of  meditation 
does  not  suit  the  dull  Sclavonian  temperament,  and  the  good  man’* 
obesity  was  no  criterion  of  robust  health.  He  made  a profound  bow 
to  the  ladies,  spoke  in  an  under  tone  to  a servant,  and  disappeared  in 
the  track  of  the  baron.  Forthwith  old  Hans  and  another  of  these 
automatons,  which  Consuelo  could  not  distinguish,  so  closely  did  they 
rwemble  each  other,  took  their  way  to  the  ssdoon.  Consuelo,  unable 


116 


CONSUBLO. 


any  .onger  evei  to  appear  to  eat,  followed  them  with  her  eyes, 
Hardly  had  they  passed  the  door,  when  a new  apparition,  more  etrik- 
ing  than  all  the  rest,  presented  itse.f  at  the  threshold.  It  was  a youth 
of  lofty  stature  and  admirable  proportions,  but  with  a countenance  of 
corpse-like  paleness.  lie  was  attired  in  black  from  head  to  foot, 
while  a velvet  cloak  trimmed  with  sable  and  held  by  tassels  and  clasps 
of  gold,  hung  from  his  shoulders.  Hair  of  ebon  blackness  fell  in  dis- 
order over  his  pale  cheeks,  which  were  further  concealed  by  the  curls 
of  his  glossy  beard.  He  motioned  away  the  servants  who  advanced 
to  meet  him,  with  an  imperative  gesture,  before  which  they  recoiled 
as  if  his  gaze  had  fascinated  them.  Then  he  turned  towards  Count 
Christian,  who  followed  him. 

“ I assure  you,  father,”  said  he,  in  a sweet  voice  and  winning  ac- 
cents, “ that  I have  never  felt  so  calm.  Something  great  is  accom- 
plished in  my  destiny,  and  the  peace  of  heaven  has  descended  on  our 
house.” 

“ May  God  grant  it,  my  child ! ” exclaimed  the  old  man,  extending 
his  hand  to  bless  him. 

The  youth  bent  his  head  reverently  under  the  hand  of  his  father; 
then  raising  it  with  a mild  and  sweet  expression,  he  advanced  to  the 
centre  of  the  hall,  smiled  faintly,  wdiile  he  slightly  touched  the  hand 
which  Amelia  held  out  to  him,  and  looked  earnestly  at  Consuelo  for 
some  seconds.  Struck  with  involuntary  respect,  Consuelo  bowed  to 
him  with  downcast  eyes ; but  he  did  not  return  the  salutation,  and 
still  continued  to  gaze  on  her. 

u This  is  the  young  person,”  said  the  canoness  in  German 
u whom — .”  But  the  young  man  interrupted  her  with  a gesture 
which  seemed  to  say,  “ Do  not  speak  to  me— do  not  disturb  my 
thoughts.”  Then  slowly  turning  away,  without  testifying  either  sur- 
prise or  interest,  he  deliberately  retired  by  the  great  door. 

“You  must  excuse  him,  my  dear  young  lady,”  said  the  canoness; 
u he ” 

“ I beg  pardon,  aunt,  for  interrupting  you,”  exclaimed  Amelia ; 
“ but  you  are  speaking  German,  which  the  signora  does  not  under- 
stand.” 

“ Pardon  me,  dear  signora,”  replied  Consuelo,  in  Italian ; I have 
spoken  many  languages  in  my  childhood,  for  I have  travelled  a good 
deal.  I remember  enough  of  German  to  understand  it  perfectly.  I 
dare  not  yet  attempt  to  speak  it,  but  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  give 
me  some  lessons,  I hope  to  regain  my  knowledge  of  it  in  a few  days.” 

“ I feel  just  in  the  same  position,”  replied  the  canoness,  in  Ger- 
man. “ I comprehend  all  the  young  lady  says,  yet  I could  not  speak 
her  language.  Since  she  understands  me,  I may  tell  her  that  I hope 
she  will  pardon  my  nephew  the  rudeness  of  which  he  has  been  guilty 
in  not  saluting  her,  when  I inform  her  that  this  young  man  has  been 
seriously  ill,  and  that  after  his  fainting  fit  he  is  so  weak  that  probably 
he  did  not  see  her.  Is  not  this  so,  brother?”  asked  the  good  Wen- 
ceslawa,  trembling  at  the  falsehood  she  had  uttered,  and  seeking  her 
pardon  in  the  eyes  of  Count  Christian. 

“ My  dear  sister,”  replied  the  old  main,  “it  is  generous  in  you  to  ex- 
cuse my  son.  The  signora,  I trust,  will  not  be  too  much  surprised  on 
learning  certain  particulars  which  we  shall  communicate  to  her  to- 
morrow with  all  the  confidence  which  we  ought  to  feel  for  a child  of 
Porpora,  and  I hope  I may  soon  add,  a friend  of  the  family.” 

It  was  no*  the  hoir  for  retiring,  and  the  habits  of  the  establishment 


CONSUBLd. 


117 


were  bo  uniform,  that  if  the  two  young  girls  had  remained  much 
longer  at  table,  the  servants  would  doubtless  have  removed  the  chain 
and  extinguished  the  lights,  just  as  if  they  had  not  been  there.  Be- 
sides, Consuelo  longed  to  retire,  and  the  baroness  conducted  her  to 
the  elegant  and  comfortable  apartment  which  had  been  set  apart  for 
her  accommodation. 

“ I should  like  to  have  an  hour’s  chat  with  you,”  said  she,  as  soon 
as  the  canoness,  who  had  done  the  honors  of  the  apartment,  had  left 
the  room.  “ I long  to  make  you  acquainted  with  matters  here,  so  as 
to  enable  you  to  put  up  with  our  eccentricities.  But  you  are  so  tired 
that  you  must  certainly  wish,  in  preference,  to  repose. 

“Do  not  let  that  prevent  you,  signora,”  replied  Consuelo;  “I  am 
fatigued,  it  is  true,  but  I feel  so  excited  that  I am  sure  I shall  not  close 
my  eyes  during  the  night.  Therefore  talk  to  me  as  much  as  you 
please,  with  this  stipulation  only,  that  it  shall  be  in  German.  It  will 
serve  as  a lesson  for  me ; for  I perceive  that  the  Signor  Count  and  the 
canoness  as  well,  are  not  familiar  with  Italian.” 

“ Let  us  make  a bargain,”  said  Amelia.  “ You  shall  go  to  bed  to 
rest  yourself  a little,  while  I throw  on  a dressing-gown  and  dismiss 
my  waiting-maid.  I shall  then  return,  seat  myself  by  your  bedside, 
and  speak  German  so  long  as  we  can  keep  awake.  Is  it  agreed  ? ” 

“ With  all  my  heart,”  replied  Consuelo. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

“ Know,  then,  my  dear,”  said  Amelia,  when  she  had  settled  herself 
as  aforesaid — “ but  now  that  I think  of  it,  I do  not  know  your  name,” 
she  added,  smiling.  “ It  is  time,  however,  to  banish  all  ceremony  be- 
tween us;  you  will  call  me  Amelia,  what  shall  I call  you — ” 

“ I have  a singular  name,  somewhat  difficult  to  pronounce,”  replied 
Consuelo.  “ The  excellent  Porpora,  when  he  sent  me  hither,  re- 
quested me  to  assume  his  name,  according  to  the  custom  which  pre- 
vails among  masters  towards  their  favorite  pupils.  I share  this  privi- 
lege, therefore,  with  the  great  Huber,  surnamed  Porporina;  but,  in 
place  of  Porporina,  please  to  call  me  simply  Hina.” 

“ Let  it  be  Hina,  then,  between  ourselves,”  said  Amelia.  “ How,  lis- 
ten, for  I have  a long  story  to  tell  you ; and  if  I do  not  go  back  a little 
into  the  history  of  the  past,  you  will  never  understand  what  took 
place  in  this  house  to-day.” 

“ I am  all  attention,”  replied  the  new  Porporina. 
u Of  course  my  dear  Hina,”  said  the  young  baroness,  “ you  know 
something  of  the  history  of  Bohemia.” 

“ Alas ! ” replied  Consuelo,  “ as  my  master  must  have  informed 
you,  I am  very  deficient  in  information.  I know  somewhat  of  the 
history  of  music,  indeed ; but  as  to  that  of  Bohemia  or  any  other 
country,  I know  nothing.” 

“ In  that  case,”  replied  Amelia,  “ I must  tell  you  enough  of  it  to 
render  my  story  intelligible.  Some  three  hundred  years  ago,  the  peo- 
ple among  whom  yo  i find  yourself,  were  great,  heroic,  and  uncon- 
querable. They  had,  indeed,  strange  masters,  and  a religion  which 
they  did  not  very  well  understand,  but  which  their  rulers  wished  to 


C 0 & A V S 1 0, 


118 

Impose  by  force.  They  were  oppressed  by  hordes  of  monks  while  A 
cruel  and  abandoned  king  insulted  their  dignity,  and  crushed  their  gym- 
pathies.  But  a secret  fury  and  deep-seated  hatred  fermented  below; 
the  storm  broke  out ; the  strangers  were  expelled ; religion  was  re* 
formed ; convents  were  pillaged  and  razed  to  the  ground,  while  the 
drunken  Wenceslas  was  cast  into  prison,  and  deprived  of  his  crown. 
The  signal  of  the  revolt  had  been  the  execution  of  John  Huss  and 
Jerome  of  Prague,  two  wise  and  courageous  Bohemians,  who  wished 
to  examine  and  throw  light  upon  the  mysteries  of  Catholicism,  and 
whom  a council  cited,  condemned,  and  burned,  after  having  promised 
them  safe  conduct  and  freedom  of  discussion.  This  infamous  treason 
was  so  grating  to  national  honor,  that  a bloody  war  ravaged  Bohemia, 
and  a large  portion  of  Germany,  for  many  years.  This  'exterminating 
war  was  called  the  war  of  the  Hussites.  Innumerable  and  dreadful 
crimes  were  committed  on  both  sides.  The  manners  of  the  times 
were  fierce  and  cruel  over  the  whole  earth.  Party  spirit  and  religious 
fanaticism  rendered  them  still  more  dreadful ; and  Bohemia  was  the 
terror  of  Europe.  I shall  not  shock  your  imagination,  already  unfa- 
vorably impressed  by  the  appearance  of  this  savage  country,  by  recit- 
ing the  horrible  scenes  which  then  took  place.  On  one  side,  it  was 
nothing  but  murder,  burnings,  destructions ; churches  profaned,  and 
monks  and  nuns  mutilated,  hung,  and  thrown  into  boiling  pitch.  On 
the  other  side,  villages  were  destroyed,  whole  districts  desolated,  trea- 
sons, falsehoods,  cruelties,  abounded  on  every  side.  Hussites  were  cast 
by  thousands  into  the  mines,  filling  abysses  with  their  dead  bodies* 
and  strewing  the  earth  with  their  own  bones  and  those  of  their  ene- 
mies. These  terrible  Hussites  were  for  a long  time  invincible ; even 
yet  their  name  is  not  mentioned  without  terror ; and  yet  their  patri- 
otism, their  intrepid  constancy  and  incredible  exploits,  have  be- 
queathed to  us  a secret  feeling  of  pride  and  admiration,  which  young 
minds,  such  as  mine,  find  it  somewhat  difficult  to  conceal.” 

“ And  why  conceal  it  ? ” asked  Consuelo,  simply. 

44  It  is  because  Bohemia  has  fallen  back,  after  many  struggles,  under 
the  yoke  of  slavery.  Bohemia  is  no  more,  my  poor  Nina.  Our  mas- 
ters were  well  aware  that  the  religious  liberty  of  our  country  was 
also  its  political  freedom ; therefore  they  have  stifled  both.” 

44  See,”  replied  Consuelo,  “ how  ignorant  I am  1 I never  heard  of 
these  things  before,  and  I did  not  dream  that  men  could  be  so  un« 
happy  and  so  wicked.” 

44  A hundred  years  after  John  Huss,  another  wise  man,  a new  sec- 
tarian, a poor  monk  called  Martin  Luther,  sprang  up  to  awaken  the 
national  spirit,  and  to  inspire  Bohemia,  and  all  the  independent  pro- 
vinces of  Germany,  with  hatred  of  a foreign  yoke  and  revolt  against 
popedom.  The  most  powerful  kings  remained  catholics,  not  so  much 
for  love  of  religion,  as  for  love  of  absolute  power.  Austria  united  with 
them  in  order  to  overwhelm  us,  and  a new  war,  called  the  Thirty  Tears’ 
War,  came  to  shake  and  destroy  our  national  independence.  From 
the  commencement  of  this  war,  Bohemia  was  the  prey  of  the  strong- 
est; Austria  treated  us  as  conquered;  took  from  us  our  faith,  our 
liberty,  our  language,  and  even  our  name.  Our  fathers  resisted  cour- 
ageously, but  the  imperial  yoke  has  weighed  more  and  more  heavily 
upon  us.  For  the  last  hundred  and  twenty  years,  our  nobility,  ruined 
and  decimated  by  exactions,  wars,  and  torments,  have  been  forced  to 
expatriate  themselves,  or  turn  renegades  by  abjuring  their  origin, 
Germanising  their  names  (pay  attention  to  this),  and  renouncing  the 


CONSU1LO, 


lid 

iberty  of  professing  .heir  religious  opinions.  They  have  burned  our 
books,  destroyed  our  schools — m a word,  made  us  Austrians.  We  are 
but  a province  of  the  empire,  and  you  hear  German  spoken  in  a 
Sclavonic  state ; that  is  saying  enough.” 

“ And  you  now  suffer  and  blush  for  this  slavery?  I understand  you, 
and  I already  hate  Austria  with  all  my  heart.” 

“ Oh ! speak  low,”  exclaimed  the  young  baroness.  “ No  one  can, 
without  danger,  speak  thus  under  the  black  sky  of  Bohemia ; and  in 
this  castle  there  is  but  one  person,  my  dear  Nina,  who  wouM  have  the 
boldness  or  the  folly  to  say  what  you  have  just  said:  that  is  my  cous- 
in Albert.” 

“ Is  this,  then,  the  cause  of  the  sorrow  which  is  imprinted  on  his 
countenance?  I felt  an  involuntary  sensation  of  respect  on  looking 
at  him.” 

“ Ah,  my  fair  lioness  of  St.  Mark,”  said  Amelia,  surprised  at  the 
generous  animation  which  suddenly  lighted  up  the  pale  features 
of  her  companion ; “ you  take  matters  too  seriously.  I fear  that  in  a 
few  days  my  poor  cousin  will  inspire  you  rather  with  pity  than  with 
respect.” 

“ The  one  need  not  prevent  the  other,”  replied  Consuelo,  “ but  ex- 
plain yourself,  my  dear  baroness.” 

“ Listen,”  said  Amelia ; “ we  are  a strictly  Catholic  family,  faithful 
to  church  and  state. — We  bear  a Saxon  name,  and  our  ancestors,  on 
the  Saxon  side,  were  always  rigidly  orthodox.  Should  my  aunt,  the 
canoness,  some  day  undertake  to  relate,  unhappily  for  you,  the  ser- 
vices which  the  counts  and  German  barons  have  rendered  to  the  holy 
cause,  you  will  find  that,  according  to  her,  there  is  not  the  slightest 
stain  of  heresy  on  our  escutcheon.  Even  when  Saxony  was  protest- 
ant,  the  Rudolstadts  preferred  to  abandon  their  Protestant  electors, 
rather  than  the  communion  of  the  Romish  church.  But  my  aunt 
takes  care  never  to  dilate  on  these  things  in  presence  of  Count  Albert; 
if  it  were  not  for  that,  you  should  hear  the  most  astonishing  things 
that  ever  human  ears  have  listened  to.” 

“ You  excite  my  curiosity  without  gratifying  it.  I understand  this 
much,  that  I should  not  appear  before  your  noble  relatives,  to  share 
your  sympathy  and  that  of  Count  Albert  for  old  Bohemia.  You  may 
trust  to  my  prudence,  dear  baroness ; besides,  I belong  to  a Catholic 
country,  and  the  respect  which  I entertain  for  my  religion,  as  well  as 
that  which  I owe  your  family,  would  ensure  my  silence  on  every  occa- 
sion.” 

“ It  will  he  wise;  for  I warn  you  once  again  that  we  are  terribly  rig- 
id upon  that  point.  As  to  myself,  dear  Nina,  I am  a better  compound 
— neither  Protestant  nor  Catholic.  I was  educated  by  nuns,  vdiose 
prayers  and  paternosters  wearied  me.  The  same  weariness  pursues 
me  here,  and  my  aunt  Wenceslawa,  in  her  own  person,  represents  the 
pedantry  and  superstition  of  a whole  community.  But  I am  too 
much  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  age,  to  throw  myself,  through 
contradiction,  into  the  not  less  presumptuous  controversies  of  the 
Lutherans : as  for  the  Hussites,  their  history  is  so  ancient  that  I have 
no  more  relish  for  it  than  for  the  glory  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 
The  French  way  of  thinking  is  to  my  mind;  and  I do  not  believe 
there  can  be  any  other  reason,  philosophy,  or  civilization,  than  that 
which  is  practised  in  charming  and  delightful  France,  the  writings  of 
which  I sometimes  ha/e  a peep  at  in  secret,  and  whose  liberty,  hap- 
piness, and  pleasures,  l behold  from  a distance,  as  in  a dream,  through 
the  bars  of  my  prison  ? 


120 


GOXSfTELO, 


u Yon  each  moment  surprise  me  more,”  said  Consuelo,  Innocently 
“ How  does  it  come  that  just  now  you  appeared  full  of  heroism,  m 
recalling  the  exploits  of  your  ancient  Bohemians  ? I -believed  you  a 
Bohemian,  and  somewhat  of  a heretic.” 

“ I am  more  than  heretic,  and  more  than  Bohemian,”  replied 
Amelia,  laughing ; “lam  the  least  thing  in  life  incredulous  altogeth- 
er; I hate  and  denounce  every  kind  of  despotism,  spiritual  or  tem- 
poral ; in  particular  I protest  against  Austria,  which  of  all  old  duen- 
nas is  the  most  wrong-headed  and  devout.” 

“And  is  Count  Albert  likewise  incredulous?  Is  he  also  imbued 
with  French  principles  ? In  that  case,  you  should  suit  each  other 
wonderfully  ? ” 

“ Oh,  we  are  the  farthest  in  the  world  from  suiting  each  other,  and 
now,  after  all  these  necessary  preambles,  is  the  proper  time  to  speak 
of  him.” 

“ Count  Christian,  my  uncle,  was  childless  by  his  first  wife.  Mar- 
ried again  at  the  age  of  forty,  he  had  five  girls,  who  as  well  as  their 
mother  all  died  young,  stricken  with  the  same  malady — a continual 
pain,  and  a species  of  slow  brain  fever.  This  second  wife  was  of  pure 
Bohemian  blood,  and  had  besides  great  beauty  and  intelligence.  I 
did  not  know  her.  You  will  see  her  portrait  in  the  grand  saloon, 
where  she  appears  dressed  in  a bodice  of  precious  stones  and  scarlet 
mantle.  Albert  resembles  her  wonderfully.  He  is  the  sixth  and  last 
of  her  children,  the  only  one  who  has  attained  the  age  of  thirty ; and 
this  not  without  difficulty;  for  without  apparently  being  ill,  he  has 
experienced  rude  shocks  and  strange  symptoms  of  disease  of  the 
brain,  which  still  cause  fear  and  dread  as  regards  his  life.  Between 
ourselves,  I do  not  think  that  he  will  long  outlive  this  fatal  period 
which  his  mother  could  not  escape.  Although  born  of  a father  al- 
ready advanced  in  years,  Albert  is  gifted  with  a strong  constitution, 
but,  as  he  himself  says,  the  malady  is  in  his  soul,  and  has  ever  been 
increasing.  From  his  earliest  infancy,  his  mind  was  filled  with 
strange  and  superstitious  notions.  When  he  was  four  years  old,  he 
frequently  fancied  he  saw  his  mother  beside  his  cradle,  although  she 
was  dead,  and  he  had  seen  her  buried.  In  the  night  he  used  to  awake 
and  converse  with  her,  which  terrified  my  aunt  Wenceslawa  so  much 
that  she  always  made  several  women  sleep  in  his  chamber  near  the 
child,  whilst  the  chaplain  used  I do  not  know  how  much  holy  water, 
and  said  masses  by  the  dozen,  to  oblige  the  spectre  to  keep  quiet. 
But  it  was  of  no  avail,  for  the  child,  although  he  had  not  spoken  of 
his  apparitions  for  a long  time,  declared  one  day  in  confidence  to  his 
nurse,  that  he  still  saw  his  own  dear  mother ; but  he  would  not  tell, 
because  Mr.  Chaplain  had  said  wicked  words  in  the  chamber  to  pre- 
vent her  coming  back. 

“ He  was  a silent  and  serious  child.  They  tried  to  amuse  him ; 
they  overwhelmed  him  with  toys  and  playthings,  but  these  only 
served  for  a long  time  to  make  him  more  sad.  At  last  they  resolved 
not  to  oppose  the  taste  which  he  displayed  for  study,  and  in  effect  this 
passion  being  satisfied,  imparted  more  animation  to  him,  but  only 
served  to  change  his  calm  and  languishing  melancholy  into  a strange 
excitement,  mingled  with  paroxysms  of  grief,  the  cause  of  which  it 
was  impossible  to  foresee  or  avert.  For  example,  when  he  saw  the 
poor,  he  melted  intox  tears,  stripped  himself  of  his  little  weal  Ji,  even 
/eproacliing  himself  *hat  he  had  not  more  to  give.  If  he  saw  a child 
beaten,  or  a peasant  ill-used,  he  became  so  indignant  that  he  would 


OOKSUSLC 


COH1D1LC.  121 

i away,  or  fall  Into  convulsions  for  hours  together.  All  this  dis- 
played a noble  disposition  and  a generous  heart;  but  the  best  quali- 
ties. pushed  to  extremes,  become  defective  or  absurd.  Reason  was 
not  developed  in  young  Albert  in  proportion  to  feeling  and  imagina- 
tion. The  study  of  history  excited  without  enlightening  him.  When 
be  learned  the  crimes  and  injustice  of  men,  he  felt  an  emotion  like 
that  of  the  barbarian  monarch,  who,  listening  to  the  history  of  Christ’s 
passion  and  death,  exclaimed  while  he  brandished  his  weapon,  ‘ Ah ! 
had  I been  there,  I should  have  cut  the  wicked  Jews  into  a thousand 
pieces ! 9 

“ Albert  could  not  deal  with  man  as  they  have  been  and  are.  He 
thought  Heaven  unjust  in  not  having  created  them  all  kind  and  com- 
passionate like  himself ; he  did  not  perceive  that  from  an  excess  of 
tenderness  and  virtue,  he  was  on  the  point  of  becoming  impious  and 
misanthropic.  He  did  not  understand  what  he  felt,  and  at  eighteen 
was  as  unfit  to  live  among  men,  and  hold  the  place  which  his  position 
demanded  in  society,  as  he  was  at  six  months  old.  If  any  person  ex- 
pressed in  his  presence  a selfish  thought,  such  as  our  poor  world 
abounds  with,  and  without  which  it  could  not  exist,  regardless  of  the 
rank  of  the  person,  or  the  feelings  of  the  family  towards  him,  he  dis- 
played immediately  an  invincible  dislike  to  him,  and  nothing  could  in- 
duce him  to  make  the  least  advance.  He  chose  his  society  from 
among  the  most  humble,  and  those  most  in  disfavor  with  fortune  and 
even  nature.  In  the  plays  of  his  childhood  he  only  amused  himself 
with  the  children  of  the  poor,  and  especially  with  those  whose  stu- 
pidity or  infirmities  had  inspired  all  others  with  disgust  or  weariness. 
This  strange  inclination,  as  you  will  soon  perceive,  had  not  abandoned 
him. 

“ As  in  the  midst  of  these  eccentricities  he  displayed  much  intelli- 
gence, a good  memory,  and  a taste  for  fine  arts,  and  his  father  and 
nis  good  aunt  Wenceslawa,  who  tenderly  cherished  him,  had  no  cause 
to  blush  for  him  in  society.  They  ascribed  his  peculiarities  to  his 
rustic  habits;  and  when  he  was  inclined  to  go  too  far,  they  took  care 
to  hide  them  under  some  pretext  or  other  from  those  who  might  be 
offended  by  them.  But  in  spite  of  his  admirable  qualities  and  happy 
dispositions,  the  count  and  the  canoness  saw  with  terror  this  inde- 
pendent, and  in  many  respects  insensible  nature,  reject  more  and 
more  the  laws  of  polite  society  and  the  amenities  and  usages  of  the 
world.” 

“ But  as  far  as  you  have  gone,”  interrupted  Consuelo,  “ I see  noth' 
mg  of  the  unreasonableness  of  which  you  speak.” 

“ Oh,”  replied  Amelia,  “ that  is  because  you  are  yourself,  so  far  as  1 
can  see,  of  an  open  and  generous  disposition.  But  perhaps  you  arc 
tired  of  my  chatter,  and  would  wish  to  sleep?  ” 

“ Not  at  all,  my  dear  Baroness,”  replied  Consuelo.  “I  entreat  von 
to  continue.”  * 

A melia  resumed  he*  narrative  in  ihese  words* 


122 


C 0 X I U 1 L ft. 


CHAPTER  XX  VL 

* You  say,  dear  Nina,  that  hither!  j you  discover  nothing  extrava 
gant  in  the  actions  or  mariner  of  my  poor  cousin.  I am  about  to  give 
you  better  proofs  of  it.  My  uncle  and  aunt  are  without  doubt  the 
best  Christians  and  the  most  charitable  souls  in  the  world.  They 
liberally  dispense  alms  to  all  around  them,  and  it  would  be  impossible 
to  display  less  pomp  or  pride  in  the  use  of  riches  than  do  these  wor- 
thy relatives  of  mine.  Well,  my  cousin  made  the  discovery  that  their 
manner  of  living  was  altogether  opposed  to  the  spirit  of  the  Gospel. 
He  wished  that,  after  the  example  of  the  early  Christians,  they 
should  sell  all  they  had,  and  become  beggars,  after  having  distributed 
the  proceeds  among  the  poor.  If,  restrained  by  the  respect  and  love 
which  he  bore  them,  he  did  not  exactly  use  words  to  this  effect,  he 
6howed  plainly  what  he  thought,  in  bitterly  deploring  the  lot  of  the 
poor,  who  are  only  born  to  toil  and  suffer,  whilst  the  rich  live  in  lux- 
ury and  idleness.  When  he  had  given  away  in  charity  all  his  pocket- 
money,  it  was  in  his  estimation  but  as  a drop  of  water  in  the  sea,  and 
he  demanded  yet  larger  sums,  which  they  dared  not  refuse  him,  and 
which  flowed  through  his  hands  as  water.  He  has  given  so  much 
that  you  will  no  longer  see  a poor  person  in  all  the  country  which 
surrounds  us,  and  I must  add  that  we  find  our  position  nothing  the 
better  for  it;  inasmuch  as  the  wants  and  demands  of  the  lower  orders 
increase  in  proportion  to  the  concessions  made  to  them,  and  our  good 
peasants,  formerly  so  mild  and  humble,  begin  to  give  themselves  airs, 
thanks  to  the  prodigality  and  fine  speeches  of  their  young  master. 
If  we  had  not  the  power  of  the  imperial  government  to  rely  upon, 
which  aflbrds  us  protection  on  one  hand,  while  it  oppresses  us  on  the 
other,  I believe  that,  more  especially  since  the  succession  of  the  Em- 
peror Charles,  our  estates  and  castles  might  have  been  pillaged  twen- 
ty times  over  by  the  bands  of  war-famished  peasants  which  the  inex- 
haustible benevolence  of  Albert,  celebrated  for  thirty  leagues  round, 
has  brought  upon  our  backs, 

“ When  Count  Christian  attempted  to  remonstrate  with  young  Al- 
bert, telling  him  that  to  give  all  in  one  day  was  to  deprive  us  of  the 
means  of  giving  any  the  next,  4 Why,  my  beloved  father/  he  replied, 
4 have  we  not  a roof  to  shelter  us  which  will  last  longer  than  ourselves, 
whilst  thousands  of  unfortunates  have  only  the  cold  and  inclement 
sky  above  their  heads  ? Have  we  not  each  more  clothes  tham  would 
suffice  for  one  of  these  ragged  and  shivering  families  ? Do  I not  see 
daily  upon  our  table  more  meats  and  good  Hungarian  wine  than 
would  suffice  to  refresh  and  comfort  these  poor  beggars,  exhausted 
with  fatigue  and  hunger?  Have  we  a right  to  refuse  when  we  have 
so  much  more  than  we  require  ? Are  we  even  permitted  to  use  what 
is  necessary  whilst  others  are  in  want?  Has  the  law  of  Christ 
changed  ? ’ 

“What  reply  could  the  count,  the  canoness  and  the  chaplain,  who 
had  educated  this  young  man  in  the  austere  principles  of  religion, 
make  to  these  fine  words  ? They  were  accordingly  embarrassed  when 
they  found  him  take  matters  thus  literally,  and  hold  no  terms  with 
those  existing  arrangements  on  which,  as  it  appears  to  me,  is  founded 
the  whole  structure  of  society. 

* When  these  affectionate  and  sensible  parents  perceived  that  he 


<j  O N a D K t o, 


m 


was  In  ftiL  train  to  dissipate  his  patrimony  within  a few  years,  and  to 
get  himself  immured  in  a prison,  as  a rebel  to  the  holy  church  and 
holy  empire,  they  at  last  adopted,  but  not  without  much  pain,  the  de- 
vice of  sending  him  to  travel,  hoping  that  when  he  should  come  to 
mix  with  men,  and  to  observe  the  fundamental  laws,  which  are  nearly 
identical  in  every  part  of  the  civilized  world,  he  would  become  habit- 
uated to  live  like  other  people.  They  committed  him  therefore  to  the 
charge  of  a crafty  Jesuit,  a man  of  the  world,  and  a man  of  intellect, 
if  ever  there  was  one,  who  comprehended  his  part  at  half  a word,  and 
conscientiously  undertook  to  perform  all  that  they  dared  not  ask  of 
him  in  direct  words.  To  speak  plainly  it  was  judged  necessary  to 
corrupt  and  tame  his  wild  spirit,  and  to  fashion  it  to  the  yoke  of  social 
life,  by  infusing  into  it,  drop  by  drop,  the  fascinating,  yet  necessary, 
poisons  of  ambition,  of  vanity,  of  indifference  to  all  matters,  relig- 
ious, moral, or  political.  Do  not  frown  so,  as  you  listen  to  me,  my  dear 
Porporina.  My  worthy  uncle  is  a good  and  simple-minded  person, 
who  has  always,  from  his  youth  upwards,  received  all  these  things 
precisely  as  they  were  set  before  his  mind,  and  who  has  had  the  good 
fortune  through  his  whole  life  to  reconcile  toleration  with  religion, 
and  that  without  hypocrisy  or  over-deep  scrutiny.  In  a century  and 
a state  of  society  like  ours,  in  which  but  one  such  man  as  Albert  is 
found  among  millions  such  as  we,  he  who  keeps  pace  with  the  world 
and  its  progress  is  the  wise  man ; he  who  would  recede  two  thousand 
years  into  the  past,  merely  scandalises  his  fellows,  and  makes  not  a 
single  convert. 

“ For  eight  successive  years  Albert  travelled  in  Italy,  France,  Eng- 
land, Prussia,  Poland,  Russia^  nay,  even  among  the  Turks.  He  re- 
turned home  through  Hungary,  Southern  Germany,  and  Bavaria. 
He  conducted  himself  with  perfect  prudence  during  his  travels,  not 
spending  anything  above  the  liberal  allowance  which  his  relatives  had 
assigned  to  him,  writing  them  very  gentle  and  affectionate  letters,  in 
which  he  never  alluded  to  anything  beyond  the  things  which  had  ac- 
tually fallen  under  his  eyes,  and  without  making  any  deep  observa- 
tions on  any  matter  -whatever,  or  giving  his  tutor  reason  to  reproach 
him  either  with  offence  or  ingratitude. 

“ On  his  return  hither,  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  year,  after  the 
first  embraces  of  his  family,  he  withdrew  himself,  they  say,  entered 
the  room  in  which  his  mother  died,  remained  shut  up  there  for  sev 
eral  hours,  and  then  came  forth  alone,  all  pale  and  haggard,  to  wander 
alone  on  the  mountain. 

“ During  this  time  the  abbe  spoke  in  confidence  with  the  Canoness 
Wenceslawa,  and  with  the  chaplain,  who  had  req  tired  of  him  a full 
and  sincere  relation  of  the  condition,  moral  anl  physical,  of  the 
young  count.  < Count  Albert/  said  he  to  them,  ‘ whether  he  has 
been  changed  in  character  in  the  course  of  his  travels,  or  whether  I 
had  formed  a false  impression  of  him  from  the  description  which  you 
gave  me  of  his  childhood,  has  behaved  towards  me  from  the  first 
hour  of  our  acquaintance  precisely  as  you  see  him  to-day — gentle, 
calm,  long-suffering,  patient,  and  exquisitely  polite.  This  excellent 
conduct  on  his  part  has  never  varied  for  a single  instant,  and  I shouM 
be  the  most  unjust  of  men,  could  I devise  a complaint  of  any  kind 
against  him.  Nothing  of  those  things  which  I apprehended,  nothing 
of  ill-regulated  expenses,  of  rude  habits,  of  wild  declamations,  of  en- 
thusiastic asceticism,  have  occurred.  He  has  never  once  asked  me 
to  allow  him  to  administer  himself  the  little  fortune  with  which  yon 


124  eoHsusLd. 

• 

charged  me  $ 1 his  uses,  and  never  once  expressed  the  slightest  dlss&t* 
isfaetion  at  iry  application  of  it.  It  is  true  that  I always  took  care  to 
anticipate  his  wishes,  and  if  a beggar  approached  the  carriage  I made 
haste, to  send  him  away  perfectly  satisfied,  almost  before  he  had  time 
to  streti  h out  his  hand.  This  mode  of  acting  appears  to  have  suc- 
ceeded perfectly,  and  as  his  lordship  was  never  again  saddened  by  the 
contemplation  of  misery,  his  ancient  prejudices  on  that  subject  ap- 
parently ceased  to  trouble  him.  I have  never  heard  him  scold  or 
blame  any  person,  or  express  an  unfavorable  opinion  on  any  institu- 
tion. That  ardent  devotion,  the  very  excess  and  extravagance  of 
which  alarmed  you,  made  way  for  a regularity  of  conduct,  and  for 
practices  entirely  becoming  a man  of  the  world.  He  was  present  in 
the  most  brilliant  courts,  and  participated  in  the  noblest  entertain- 
ments without  manifesting  either  enthusiasm  or  disgust  for  anything. 
Everywhere  his  fine  face,  his  handsome  carriage,  his  unemphatic 
politeness,  and  the  good  taste  which  always  guided  his  conversation, 
were  subjects  of  remark  and  approbation.  His  morals  have  remained 
ever  as  pure  as  those  of  a perfectly  well-conducted  girl,  without  ever 
declining  into  prudery  or  bad  taste.  He  visited  theatres,  nunneries, 
monuments,  conversed  soberly  and  judiciously  of  the  fine  arts.  In  a 
word,  I cannot  conceive  in  what  respect  he  can  have  caused  your 
lordship  and  ladyship  any  uneasiness,  never  having,  for  my  part,  seen 
a gentleman  more  perfectly  reasonable.  If  there  be  anything  ex- 
traordinary about  him,  it  is  precisely  this  moderation,  prudence,  and 
self-possession — this  absence  ©f  all  the  excitements  and  passions,  such 
as  I have  never  met  in  any  other  young  man,  so  advantageously  cir- 
cumstanced by  nature,  birth,  and  fortune. 

“ This,  moreover,  was  but  the  natural  confirmation  of  the  frequent 
letters  which  the  abbe  had  written  to  the  family,  but  in  which  they 
had  always  apprehended  some  exaggeration  on  his  part,  so  that  they 
were,  in  fact,  never  perfectly  reassured  until  at  the  moment  when  he 
affirmed  the  complete  cure  of  my  cousin,  without  seeming  to  fear  that 
his  conduct  before  the  eyes  of  his  parents  would  belie  his  asseveration. 
The  abbe  was  overloaded  with  gifts  and  caresses,  and  the  return  of 
Albert  from  his  walk  was  eagerly  expected.  His  absence  was  long, 
and  when  at  length  he  returned,  just  as  they  were  about  to  sit  down 
to  supper,  he  was  so  pale,  and  the  gravity  of  his  countenance  was  so 
remarkable,  that  all  were  struck  by  it.  In  the  first  moment  of  his  af- 
fectionate pleasure,  on  his  return,  his  features  had  expressed  a calm 
and  settled  satisfaction,  which  had  already  vanished.  All  were  aston- 
ished, and  questioned  the  abbe  in  whispers  concerning  the  change. 
He  looked  at  Albert,  and  then  turning  with  some  surprise  to  those 
who  were  questioning  him,  in  a corner  of  the  apartment — ‘ I see  noth- 
ing unusual/  he  said,  ‘ in  the  expression  of  Monsieur  le  Comte.  This 
is  the  calm  and  peaceful  aspect  which  he  has  ever  worn  during  the 
eight  years  that  I have  had  the  honor  of  accompanying  him., 

“ Count  Christian  seemed  content  with  this  answer.  ‘ When  we 
last  saw  him/  said  he  to  his  sister,  ‘ he  was  still  bedecked  with  all 
the  florid  beauty  of  youth,  and  was  sometimes,  alas  1 fired  by  some 
touch  of  internal  fear,  which  kindled  his  cheeks  and  fired  his  eyes. 
He  has  now  returned  to  us  emboldened  by  the  sun  of  southern 
climes,  a little  aged,  perhaps,  by  fatigue,  and  a little  touched  with  that 
gravity  which  so  well  becomes  a finished  and  mature  man.  Do  you 
not  think,  my  dear  sister,  that,  after  all,  he  is  better  so  ? , 

“ ‘ I think  his  expression  is  very  sad  under  the  mask  of  this  gravity, 


CONSUELO 


125 


answered  my  excellent  aunt,  ‘ and  I have  never  seen  a man  of 
twenty-eight  so  phlegmatical,  and  so  little  given  to  conversation.  He 
only  replies  to  us  in  monosyllables/ 

“ Monsieur  the  count  has  always  been  very  sparing  of  his  words/ 
answered  the  abbe. 

“ ‘ Such  was  not  his  habit  formerly/  said  the  canoness,  ‘ if  he  had 
his  weeks  of  silence  and  meditation,  he  had  likewise  his  days  of  ex- 
pansiveness, and  his  hours  of  eloquence/ 

“ ‘ 1 have  never  seen  him/  resumed  the  abbe,  ‘ to  vary  from  the  re- 
serve which  your  lordships  notice  in  him  at  this  moment/ 

“ ‘ Were  you  then  better  satisfied  with  his  demeanor  when  he  talk- 
ed too  much,  and  too  wildly,  and  used  expressions  which  made  us  ah 
tremble  ? 1 said  Count  Christian  to  his  frightened  sister ; ‘ of  a truth 
this  is  the  very  way  with  women/ 

“ ‘ But  he  at  least  existed  then/  she  replied ; ‘ now  he  resembles  the 
inhabitant  of  some  other  sphere,  who  takes  no  interest  in  the  affair* 
of  this  world/ 

“ ‘ That  is  the  constant  and  enduring  character  of  the  count/  said 
the  abbe,  * he  is  a man  entirely  concentrated  within  himself— who  im- 
parts none  of  his  impulses  to  any  one — and  who,  if  I must  speak  out 
exactly  what  I think,  is  very  slightly  affected  by  any  impressions  from 
things  external.  Such  is  the  case  with  many  cold,  sensible,  and  reflec* 
tive  persons ; he  is  so  constituted,  and  I am  of  opinion  that  by  en- 
deavoring to  excite  him,  the  only  result  would  be  to  disturb  and  con- 
fuse a mind  disinclined  to  action  and  to  every  perilous  exertion/ 

“ * Oh,  I could  swear  that  this  is  not  his  true  and  natural  character/ 
said  the  canoness. 

“ ‘ I have  little  doubt,  however/  returned  the  priest,  ‘ that  madame 
the  canoness  will  see  cause  to  overcome  the  prejudices  she  seems  to 
have  formed  against  so  rare  an  advantage/ 

“ ‘ Indeed,  my  sister/  said  the  count,  ‘ I think  that  monsieur  the 
abbe  speaks  very  wisely.  Has  he  not  brought  about,  by  his  care  and 
condescension,  the  result  which  we  have  so  earnestly  desired  ? Has 
he  not  turned  aside  the  calamities  which  we  dreaded  ? Albert  gave 
us  every  token  of  turning  out  a prodigy,  an  enthusiast,  a rash-headed 
visionary.  He  comes  back  to  us  just  such  as  we  ought  to  desire  him 
to  be,  in  order  to  command  the  esteem,  the  confidence,  and  the  con- 
sideration of  his  equals/ 

“‘But  as  lifeless  as  an  old  volume!1  cried  the  canoness;  ‘or  per- 
haps hardened  to  everything  or  disdaining  everything  which  does  not 
answer  to  his  hidden  instincts.  He  does  not  even  seem  glad  to  sea 
u»,  who  awaited  his  return  with  such  impatience/ 

“ ‘ Monsieur  le  Comte  was  himself  impatient  to  return/  said  tha 
abbe ; ‘ I saw  it  clearly  enough,  though  he  did  not  manifest  it  openly. 
He  is  by  no  means  of  a demonstrative  character.  Nature  framed  him 
of  a reserved  temper/ 

“ ‘ On  the  contrary/  she  exclaimed,  ‘nature  framed  him  demonstra- 
tive. Sometimes,  indeed,  he  was  tender,  sometimes  he  was  violent, 
even  to  excess.  He  often  vexed,  but  then  again  he  would  cast  him- 
self into  my  arms,  and  I was  at  once  disarmed/ 

“ ‘ To  me  he  has  never  been  guilty  of  aught  for  which  to  make  a 
reparation/ 

“ ‘ Believe  me,  sister,  things  are  much  better  as  they  now  are/ 

“ ‘ Alas ! 9 said  the  canoness,  ‘ and  will  he  always  wear  that  calm 
ani  constrained  face,  which  chills  my  very  soul?  * 


C 0 M S U I£  I.  O. 


136 

“ 4 It  Is  the  proud  and  noble  face  whbh  becomes  a man  ef  his 
rank/  replied  the  abbe. 

“ ‘It  is  a face  of  marble  1 ’ cried  the  canoness.  4 When  I lock  at 
him  I think  I see  my  mother,  not  as  1 knew  her,  warm,  sympathising 
and  benevolent,  but  as  they  have  painted  her,  motionless,  and  icy 
cold,  in  her  frame  of  black  oak/ 

“ ‘ I repeat  to  your  ladyship,  that  for  eight  years,  Count  Albert  has 
wo  e no  other  than  that  one  habitual  expression/ 

“ ‘ Alas ! and  it  is  then  eight  years  since  he  has  smiled  on  any  per* 
son  ? ’ said  the  good  aunt,  unable  any  longer  to  restrain  her  tears. 

‘ For  during  two  whole  hours  which  I have  spent  in  gazing  on  him, 
not  the  slightest  symptom  of  a smile  has  animated  his  wan,  set  lips! 
Oh ! I feel  inclined  to  spring  upon  him,  and  clasp  him  to  my  heart,  as 
of  old,  reproaching  him  with  his  indifference,  and  blaming  him,  as  I 
was  wont,  in  order  to  see  whether  he  will  not,  as  he  used,  cling  to  my 
neck  and  sob  forth  his  affection/ 

“ ‘ Beware  of  committing  any  such  imprudence,  my  dear  sister/  said 
Count  Christian,  compelling  her  to  turn  away  her  eyes  from  Count 
Albert,  whom  she  still  gazed  at  through  her  tears.  ‘ Listen  not  to 
the  weakness  of  a maternal  heart.  Surely  we  know  but  too  well  that 
an  excessive  sensibility  has  been  the  scourge  of  our  beloved  son’*  life 
and  reason.  By  diverting  his  thoughts,  and  removing  from  him  all 
over-violent  emotions,  monsieur  the  abbe,  in  conformity  with  our  ad- 
vice, and  with  the  recommendations  of  his  physicians,  has  succeeded 
in  calming  his  agitated  soul.  Do  not  then  undo  all  that  he  has  done, 
by  yielding  to  the  whims  of  a childish  affection/ 

“ The  canoness  yielded  to  his  reasoning,  and  endeavored  to  habitu- 
ate herself  to  the  icy  exterior  of  Count  Albert,  but  she  could  by  no 
means  accustom  herself  to  it,  and  she  often  whispered  in  her  broth- 
er’s ear,  ‘ you  may  say  as  you  will,  Christian,  but  I fear  that  they  have 
rendered  him  idiotic,  by  treating  him,  not  as  a man,  but  a peevish  in- 
fant/ 

“ In  the  evening,  when  they  were  parting  fbr  the  night,  they  all 
embraced.  Albert  received  his  father’s  blessing  with  deep  affection, 
and  when  the  canoness  pressed  him  to  her  bosom,  he  perceived  that 
she  was  trembling,  and  that  her  voice  faltered  perceptibly.  Then  he 
began  to  tremble  likewise,  and  tore  himself  from  her  arms  as  if  a keen 
pang  had  shot  through  him.  ‘ You  see,  sister/  whispered  the  count 
In  her  ear,  * he  is  no  longer  used  to  encounter  such  emotions,  and 
you  are  only  giving  him  pain/  At  the  same  time,  scarcely  satisfied 
with  his  own  argument,  he  watched  him  narrowly,  by  no  means  free 
himself  from  emotion,  in  order  to  discover  if,  by  his  conduct  toward 
the  abbe,  he  manifested  any  particular  predilection  for  that  person ; 
but  Albert  merely  bowed  to  his  tutor,  with  distant  and  reserved  po- 
liteness. 

“ ‘ My  son,  said  the  count,  ‘ I believe  that  I have  fulfilled  your  in- 
tentions, and  satisfied  the  desires  of  your  heart,  in  requesting  mon- 
sieur the  abbe  not  to  leave  you,  as  he  had  expressed  some  idea  of  do  ( 
ing,  and  in  prevailing  on  him  to  remain  with  us  as  long  as  possible 
I would  not  have  your  happiness  at  rejoining  our  family  embittered 
to  you  by  a single  regret,  and  I trust  that  your  worthy  friend  will  as* 
gist  us  in  procuring  you  this  unmingled  happiness/ 

u Albert  replied  only  by  a low  bow,  and  at  the  same  moment 
strange  smile  quivered  across  his  lips. 

Alas!’  cried  the  canoness,  as  he  withdrew*  ‘ia  that  the  feihfc* 
rfUemUe 


CONfTTEL^ 


1IT 


CHAPTER  XXVTL 

u Bttrijvg  Albert’s  absence,  the  count  and  the  canonesa  had  formed 
Innumerable  projects  for  the  future  welfare  of  their  dear  child,  among 
which  that  of  marrying  him  occupied  a prominent  place.  With  hii 
fine  face,  his  noble  birth,  and  his  fortune  still  unimpaired,  Albert 
could  have  aspired  to  a connection  with  the  noblest  families  in  the 
Kingdom.  But  in  case  his  indolence,  and  shy,  retiring  disposition 
should  make  him  unwilling  to  bring  himself  forward,  and  push  his 
fortune  in  the  world,  they  kept  in  reserve  for  him  a young  person  of 
equally  high  birth  with  himself,  since  she  was  his  cousin-germain,  and 
bore  the  same  name ; she  was  not  so  rich,  indeed,  but  was  young, 
handsome,  and  an  only  daughter.  This  young  person  was  Amelia, 
baroness  of  Rudolstadt,  your  humble  servant  and  new  friend. 

“ 1 She/  said  they,  when  conversing  together,  by  the  fireside,  i has 
as  yet  seep  nobody.  She  cannot  hope  for  a better  match ; and  as  to 
the  eccentricities  of  her  cousin,  the  old  associations  of  their  child- 
hood, the  ties  of  relationship,  and  a few  months’  intimacy  with  us, 
will  go  far  to  overcome  her  repugnance  to  them,  and  bring  her  round 
to  tolerate,  were  it  only  for  the  sake  of  family  feeling,  what  might  be 
unendurable  to  a stranger.’  They  were  sure  of  the  consent  of  my 
father,  who  never  had  any  will  but  that  of  his  elder  brother  and  his 
sister  Wencesiawa;  and  who,  to  say  the  truth,  has  never  had  a will 
of  his  own, 

u When,  after  a fortnight’s  careful  observation  of  his  manners,  the 
constant  melancholy  and  reserve,  which  appeared  to  be  the  confirmed 
character  of  my  cousin,  became  evident  to  them,  my  uncle  and  aunt 
concluded,  that  the  last  scion  of  their  race  was  not  destined  to  win 
renown  by  great  or  noble  deeds.  He  displayed  no  inclination  for  a 
bright  career  in  arms,  diplomacy,  or  civil  affairs.  To  every  proposal 
he  mildly  replied  that  he  should  obey  the  wishes  of  his  relations,  but 
that  for  his  own  part  he  desired  neither  luxury  nor  glory.  After  all, 
this  indolent  disposition  was  but  an  exaggerated  copy  of  his  father’s, 
a man  of  such  calm  and  easy  temperament,  that  his  imperturbability 
borders  on  apathy,  and  his  modesty  is  a kind  of  self-denial.  What 
gives  to  my  uncle’s  character  a tone  which  is  wanting  in  his  son’s,  is 
his  strong  sense,  devoid  of  pride,  of  the  duties  he  owes  to  society. 
Albert  seemed  formerly  to  understand  domestic  duties,  but  public  ones, 
as  they  were  regarded  by  others,  concerned  him  no  more  than  in  his 
childhood.  His  father  and  mine  had  followed  the  career  of  arms 
under  Montecuculh  against  Turenne.  They  had  borne  with  them 
into  the  war  a kind  of  religious  enthusiasm,  inspired  by  the  Emperor, 
A blind  obedience  to  their  superiors  was  considered  the  duty  of  their 
time.  This  more  enlightened  age,  however,  strips  the  monarch  of 
his  false  halo,  and  the  rising  generation  believe  no  more  in  the  diving 
right  of  the  crown  than  in  that  of  the  tiara.  When  my  uncle  en- 
deavored to  stir  up  in  his  son’s  bosom  the  flame  of  ancient  chivalric 
ardor,  he  soon  perceived  that  his  arguments  had  no  meaning  for  a 
reasoner  who  looked  on  such  things  with  contempt. 

“ ‘ Since  it  is  thus,’  my  uncle  observed  to  my  aunt,  * we  will  not 
thwart  Mm.  Let  us  not  counteract  this  melancholy  remedy,  which 
has  at  least  restored  to  us  a passionless,  in  place  of  an  impetuous  man. 
Let  life,  accordance  with  his  desire,  be  tranquil,  and  he  may  be- 


128 


CON8USLO* 

eome  studions,  and  philosophic  as  were  many  of  hit  ancestors,  an  a* 
dent  lover  of  the  chase  like  our  brother  Frederick,  >r  a Just  and  b*- 
neficent  master,  as  we  ourselves  try  to  be.  Let  him  lead  from  hence- 
forward the  untroubled  and  inoffensive  life  of  an  old  man ; he  will  be 
the  first  Rudolstadt  whose  life  shall  have  known  no  youth.  But  as  he 
must  not  be  the  last  of  his  race,  let  us  marry  him,  so  that  the  heir  of 
our  name  may  fill  tp  this  blank  in  the  glory  of  our  house.  Who 
knows  but  it  may  be  the  will  of  Providence  that  the  generous  blood 
of  his  ancestors  now  sleeps  in  his  veins  only  to  reawaken  with  a fresh 
impulse  in  those  of  his  descendants  ? ’ 

“ So  it  was  decided  that  they  should  break  the  ice  on  this  delicate 
subject  to  my  cousin  Albert. 

“ They  at  first  approached  it  gently ; but  as  they  found  this  propo- 
sal quite  as  unpalatable  as  all  previous  ones  had  been,  it  became  nec- 
essary to  reason  seriously  with  him.  He  pleaded  bashfulness,  timid- 
ity, and  awkwardness  in  female  society. 

“ ‘ Certainly/  said  my  aunt,  ‘ in  my  young  days  I would  have  con- 
sidered a lover  so  grave  as  Albert  more  repulsive  than  otherwise ; and 
I would  not  have  exchanged  my  hump  for  his  conversation/ 

“ * We  must  then/  said  my  uncle,  ‘ fall  back  upon  our  last  resource, 
and  persuade  him  to  marry  Amelia.  He  has  known  her  from  infancy, 
looks  Upon  her  as  a sister,  and  will  be  less  timid  with  her;  and,  as  to 
firmness  of  character  she  unites  animation  and  cheerfulness,  she  will 
by  her  good-humor  dissipate  those  gloomy  moods  into  which  he  so  fre- 
quently relapses/ 

"Albert  did  not  condemn  this  project,  and,  without  openly  saying 
*o,  consented  to  see  and  become  acquainted  with  me.  It  was  agreed 
that  I should  not  be  informed  of  the  plan,  in  order  to  save  me  the 
mortification  of  being  rejected,  which  was  always  possible  on' his  part. 
They  wrote  to  my  father,  and  as  soon  as  they  had  secured  his  consent, 
they  took  steps  to  obtain  the  dispensation  from  the  Pope  which  our 
consanguinity  rendered  necessary.  At  the  same  time  my  father  took 
me  from  th£  convent,  n nd  one  fine  morning  we  arrived  at  tho  Castle 
of  the  Giants — I very  well  pleased  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  and  impa- 
tient to  see  my  betrothed ; my  good  father  full  of  hope,  and  fancying 
that  he  had  ingeniously  concealed  from  me  a project  which  he  had  un- 
consciously betrayed  in  every  sentence  he  uttered  in  the  course  of  the 
Journey. 

“ The  first  thing  that  struck  me  in  Albert  was  his  fine  figure  and 
noble  air.  I confess,  dear  Nina,  that  my^  heart  beat  almost  audibly 
when  he  kissed  my  hand,  and  that  for  some  days  I was  charmed  by 
his  look,  and  delighted  by  the  most  trifling  word  that  fell  from  his 
lips.  His  serious,  thoughtful  manner  was  not  displeasing  to  me. 
He  seemed  to  feel  no  constraint  in  my  society ; on  the  contrary,  he 
was  unreserved  as  in  the  days  of  childhood ; and  when,  from  a dread 
of  failing  in  politeness,  he  wished  to  restrain  his  attention,  our  parents 
urged  him  to  continue  his  ancient  familiarity  with  me.  My  cheerful- 
ness sometimes  caused  him  to  smile  involuntarily,  and  my  good  aunt* 
transported  with  joy,  attributed  to  me  the  honor  of  this  improvement 
which  she  believed  would  be  permanent.  At  length  he  came  to  treat 
me  with  the  mildness  and  gentleness  one  displays  towards  a child,  and 
I was  content — satisfied  that  he  would  shortly  pay  more  attention  to 
my  little  animated  countenance,  and  to  the  handsome  dresses  br 
^nich  I studied  to  please  him.  But  I had  soon  the  mortification  to 
icover  that  he  cared  little  for  the  and  that  he  did  not  even  aj* 


C0N8UEL0, 


129 


Mar  to  see  tho  other.  One  day  my  good  aunt  wished  Vo  direct  hi*  at- 
tention to  a beautiful  blue  dress,  which  suited  my  figure  admirably. 
Would  you  believe  it? — he  declared  its  color  to  be  a bright  red!  His 
\ tutor,  the  abbe,  who  had  honied  compliments  ever  ready  on  his  lips, 
and  who  wished  to  give  his  pupil  a lesson  in  gallantry,  insinuated  that 
hB  could  easily  guess  why  Count  Albert  could  not  distinguish  the 
co^or  of  my  dress.  Here  was  a capital  opportunity  for  Albert  to  ad- 
dress to  me  some  flattering  remarks  on  the  rose  of  my  cheeks  or  the 
golden  hue  of  my  hair.  He  contented  himself,  however,  with  drily 
telling  the  abbe  that  he  was  as  capable  of  distinguishing  colors  as  he 
was,  and  with  repeating  his  assertion  that  my  robe  was  red  as  blood. 
I do  not  know  why  this  rudeness  of  manner  and  eccentricity  of  ex- 
pression made  me  shudder.  I looked  at  Albert,  and  his  glance  terri- 
fied me.  From  that  day  I began  to  fear  him  more  than  I loved  him. 
In  a short  time  I ceased  to  love  him  at  all,  and  now  I neither  love  nor 
fear  him:  I merely  pity  him.  You  will  by  degrees  understand  why. 

“ The  next  day  we  were  to  go  to  Tauss,  the  nearest  village,  to  make 
some  purchases.  I had  promised  myself  much  pleasure  from  this  ex- 
cursion, as  Albert  was  to  accompany  me  on  horseback.  When  ready 
to  set  out,  I of  course  expected  that  he  would  offer  me  his  arm.  The 
tarriages  were  in  the  court,  but  he  did  not  make  his  appearance,  al- 
though his  servant  said  that  he  had  knocked  at  his  door  at  the  usual 
hour.  They  sent  again  to  see  if  he  were  getting  ready.  Albert  al- 
ways dressed  by  himself,  and  never  permitted  a servant  to  enter  his 
chamber  until  he  had  quitted  it.  They  knocked  in  vain ; there  was 
no  reply.  His  father,  becoming  uneasy  at  this  continued  silence,  went 
himself  to  the  room,  but  he  could  neither  open  the  door,  which  was 
bolted  inside,  nor  obtain  a reply  to  his  questions.  They  began  to  be 
frightened,  when  the  abbe  observed  in  his  usual  placid  manner,  that 
Count  Albert  was  subject  to  long  fits  of  sleep,  which  might  almost  be 
termed  trances,  and  if  suddenly  awakened,  he  was  agitated,  and  ap- 
parently suffered  for  many  days,  as  from  a shock.  ‘ But  that  is  a dis- 
ease/ said  the  canoness,  anxiously. 

u 4 1 do  not  think  so/  said  the  abbe.  ‘ He  has  never  complained  of 
anything.  The  physicians  whom  I brought  to  see  him  when  he  lay 
in  this  state,  found  no  feverish  symptoms,  and  attributed  his  condition 
to  excess  of  application  to  study ; and  they  earnestly  advised  that  this 
apparently  necessary  repose  and  entire  forgetfulness  should  not  be 
counteracted  by  any  mode  of  treatment/ 

“ ‘ And  is  it  frequent  ? ’ asked  my  uncle. 

“ ‘ I have  observed  it  only  five  or  six  times  during  eight  years ; and 
not  having  annoyed  him  by  my  attentions,  I have  never  found  any 
unpleasant  consequences/ 

“ * And  do  these  last  long  ? y I demanded  in  my  turn,  very  impa- 
tiently. 

“ * Longer  or  shorter,  according  to  the  want  of  rest  which  precedes 
or  occasions  these  attacks ; but  no  one  can  know,  for  the  count  either 
does  not  himself  recollect  the  cause,  or  does  not  wish  to  tell  it  Ha 
Is  extremely  studious,  and  conceals  it  with  unusual  modesty/ 

“ t He  is  very  learned  then  ? 9 I replied. 
u * Extremely  learned/ 
w * And  he  never  displays  it?  9 

U i He  makes  a secret  of  it—  aay,  does  not  himself  suspect  it 
Ui  Of  what  use  is  it,  in  that  zsute?  y 

* * Genius  is  like  beauty/  replied  this  Jesuit  courtier,  casting  a soft 


CON  8UBLO. 


180 

iook  upon  me ; 4 both  are  favors  of  Heaven  whkh  occasion  neither 

pride  nor  agitation  to  those  who  enjoy  them/ 

44 1 understood  the  lesson,  and  only  felt  the  more  annoyed,  as  yon 
may  suppose.  They  resolved  to  defer  the  drive  until  my  cousin  should 
awake;  but  when  at  the  end  of  two  hours  I saw  that  he  did  not  s£ir, 
I laid  aside  my  rich  riding-Iress,  and  set  myself  to  my  embroidery, 
not  without  spoiling  a good  deal  of  silk  and  missing  many  stitches, 
I was  indignant  at  the  neglect  of  Albert,  who  oyer  his  books  in  the 
evening  had  forgotten  his  promised  ride  with  me,  and  who  had  now 
left  me  to  wait,  in  no  very  pleasant  humor,  while  he  quietly  enjoyed 
his  sleep.  The  day  wore  on,  and  we  were  obliged  to  give  up  our  pro- 
posed excursion.  My  father,  confiding  in  the  assurance  of  the  abbe, 
took  his  gun,  and  strolled  out  to  kill  a few  hares.  My  aunt,  who  had 
less  faith  in  the  good  man’s  opinion,  went  up  stairs  more  than  twen- 
ty times  to  listen  at  her  nephew’s  door,  but  without  being  able  to  hear 
the  faintest  breathing.  The  poor  woman  was  in  an  agony  of  distress. 
As  for  my  uncle,  he  took  a book  of  devotion,  to  try  its  effect  in  calm- 
ing his  inquietude,  and  began  to  read  in  a corner  of  the  saloon  with 
a resignation  so  provoking  that  it  half  tempted  me  to  leap  out  of  the 
window  with  chagrin.  At  length  towards  evening,  my  aunt,  over- 
joyed, came  in  to  inform  us  that  she  had  heard  Albert  rise  and  dress 
himself.  The  abbe  advised  us  to  appear  neither  surprised  nor  un- 
easy, not  to  ask  the  count  any  questions,  and  to  endeavor  to  divert 
his  mind  and  his  thoughts,  if  he  evinced  any  signs  of  mortification  at 
what  had  occurred. 

44  But  if  my  cousin  be  not  ill,  then  he  is  mad ! ” exclaimed  I,  with 
some  degree  of  irritation. 

44 1 observed  my  uncle  change  countenance  at  this  harsh  expression, 
and  I was  struck  with  sudden  remorse.  But  when  Albert  entered 
without  apologizing  to  any  one,  and  without  even  appearing  to  be 
aware  of  our  disappointment,  I confess  I was  excessively  piqued  and 
gave  him  a very  cold  reception,  of  which,  however,  absorbed  as  he 
was  in  thought,  he  took  not  the  slightest  notice. 

44  In  the  evening,  my  father  fancied  that  a little  music  would  raise 
his  spirits.  I had  not  yet  sung  before  Albert,  as  my  harp  had  only  ar- 
rived the  preceding  evening.  I must  not,  my  scientific  Porporina, 
boast  of  my  musical  acquirements  before  you;  but  you  will  admit  that 
I have  a good  voice,  and  do  not  want  natural  taste.  I allowed  them  to 
press  me,  for  I had  at  the  moment  more  inclination  to  cry  than  to 
sing,  but  Albert  offered  not  a word  to  draw  me  out.  At  last  I yield- 
ed, but  I sang  badly,  and  Albert,  as  if  I had  tortured  his  ears,  had  the 
rudeness  to  leave  the  room  after  I had  gone  through  a few  bars.  I 
W'as  compelled  to  summon  all  my  pride  to  my  assistance  to  prevent  me 
from  bursting  into  tears,  and  to  enable  me  to  finish  the  air  without 
breaking  the  strings  of  my  harp.  My  aunt  followed  her  nephew : my 
lhther  was  asleep ; my  uncle  waited  near  the  door  till  his  sister  should 
return,  to  tell  him  something  of  his  son.  The  abbe  alone  remained  to 
pay  me  compliments,  which  irritated  me  yet  more  than  the  indiffer- 
ence of  the  others.  4 It  seems,’  said  I to  him,  4 that  my  cousin  doe« 
not  like  music/ 

44  4 On  the  contrary,  he  likes  it  very  much/  replied  he,  4 but  it  is  ac- 
cording  ’ 

44  4 According  to  the  manner  in  which  one  performs/  said  I,  into* 
rapting  him. 

replied  he,  n no  wise  disconcerted,  4 and  to  the  state  of 


COESUELO. 


181 

bis  mind  Sometimes  music  does  him  good,  sometimes  harm.  Ton 
have,  I am  certain,  agitated  him  so  much  that  he  feared  he  should 
not  be  able  to  restrain  his  emotion.  This  retreat  is  more  flattering 
to  you  than  the  most  elaborate  praise/ 

“ The  compliments  of  this  Jesuit  had  in  them  something  so  sinister 
and  sarcastic  that  it  made  me  detest  him.  But  I was  soon  freed  from 
his  annoyance,  as  you  shall  presently  learn. 


CHAPTER  XXYIII. 

“ On  the  following  day,  my  aunt,  who  never  speaks  unless  strongly 
moved,  took  it  into  her  head  to  begin  a conversation  with  the  abbe 
and  the  cfiaplain,  and  as,  with  the  exception  of  her  family  affections 
which  entirely  absorb  her,  she  is  incapable  of  conversing  on  any  topic 
but  that  of  family  honor,  she  was  ere  long  deep  in  a dissertation 
on  her  favorite  subject,  genealogy,  and  laboring  to  convince  the  two 
priests  that  our  race  was  the  purest  and  the  most  illustrious,  as  well 
as  the  most  noble,  of  all  the  families  of  Germany,  on  the  female  side 
particularly.  The  abbe  listened  with  patience,  the  chaplain  with  pro- 
found respect,  when  Albert,  who  apparently  had  taken  no  interest  in 
the  old  lady’s  disquisition,  all  at  once  interrupted  her. 

“ 1 It  would  seem,  my  dear  aunt,’  said  he,  ‘ that  you  are  laboring 
under  some  hallucination  as  to  the  superiority  of  our  family.  It  is 
true  that  their  titles  and  nobility  are  of  sufficient  antiquity,  but  a 
family  which  loses  its  name,  abjures  it  in  some  sort,  in  order  to  as- 
sume that  of  a woman  of  foreign  race  and  religion,  gives  up  its  right 
to  be  considered  ancient  in  virtue,  and  faithful  to  the  glory  of  its 
country/ 

“This  remark  somewhat  disconcerted  the  canoness,  but  as  the 
abbe  had  appeared  to  lend  profound  attention  to  it,  she  thought  it  in- 
cumbent on  her  to  reply. 

“ * I am  not  of  your  opinion,  dear  child,’  said  she;  * we  have  often 
seen  illustrious  houses  render  themselves  still  more  so,  and  with  rea- 
son, by  uniting  to  their  name  that  of  a maternal  branch,  in  order  not 
to  deprive  their  heirs  of  the  honor  of  being  descended  from  a woman 
so  illustriously  connected/ 

“ ‘ But  this  is  a case  to  which  that  rule  does  not  apply,’  answered 
Albert,  with  a pertinacity  for  which  he  was  not  remarkable.  ‘ I can 
conceive  the  alliance  of  two  illustrious  names.  It  is  quite  right  that 
a woman  should  transmit  to  her  children  her  own  name  joineu  with 
that  of  her  husband ; but  the  complete  abolition  of  the  latter  would 
appear  to  me  an  outrage  on  the  part  of  her  who  would  exact  it,  and 
an  act  of  baseness  on  the  part  of  him  who  would  submit  to  it/ 

“ * You  speak  of  matters  of  very  remote  date,  Albert,’  said  the  can* 
©ness,  with  a profound  sigh,  ‘ and  are  even  less  happy  than  I in  the 
application  of  the  rule.  Our  good  abbe  might,  from  your  words,  sup* 
pose  that  some  one  of  Dur  ancestors  had  been  capable  of  such  mean- 
ness. And  since  you  appear  to  be  so  well  informed  on  subjects  of 
which  I supposed  you  comparatively  ignorant,  you  should  not  have 
made  a reflection  01  this  kind  relative  to  political  events,  now8 
thank  God,  long  passed  away ! ’ 


152 


CONStJELO, 


If  my  observation  disturb  you,  I shall  detail. the  facts,  In  order  tc 
dear  the  memory  of  our  ancestor,  Withold,  the  last  Count  of  Rudot 
Btadt,  of  every  imputation  injurious  to  it.  It  appears  to  interest  my 
cousin/  he  added,  seeing  that  my  attention  had  become  riveted  upon 
him,  astonished  as  I'was  to  see  him  engage  in  a discussion  so  contrary 
to  his  philosophical  ideas  and  silent  habits.  ‘Know,  then,  Amelia, . 
that  our  great-great-grandfather,  Wratislaw,  was  only  four  years  old 
when  his  mother,  Ulrica  of  Rudolstadt,  took  it  into  her  head  to  inflict 
upon  him  the  insult  of  supplanting  his  true  name — the  name  of  bis 
fathers,  which  was  Podiebrad — by  this  Saxon  name  which  you  and  I 
bear  to-day — you  without  blushing  for  it,  and  I without  being  proud 
of  it.’ 

“ ‘ It  is  useless,  to  say  the  least  of  it/  said  my  uncle,  who  seemed 
ill  at  ease,  ‘ to  recall  events  so  distant  from  the  time  in  which  we 
live/ 

“ ‘ It  appears  to  me/  said  Albert,  ‘ that  my  aunt  has  gone  much  fur- 
ther back,  in  relating  the  high  deeds  of  the  Rudolstadts,  and  I do  not 
know  why  one  of  us,  when  he  recollects  by  chance  that  he  is  of  Bo- 
hemian and  not  of  Saxon  origin — that  he  is  called  Podiebrad,  and 
not  Rudolstadt— should  be  guilty  of  ili-breeding  in  speaking  of  events 
which  occurred  not  more  than  one  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago/ 
“‘I  know  very  well/  said  the  abbe,  who  had  listened  to  Albert, 
with  considerable  interest,  ‘that  your  illustrious  family  was  allied 
in  past  times  to  the  royal  line  of  George  Podiebrad ; but  I was  not 
aware  that  it  had  descended  in  so  direct  a line  as  to  bear  the  name/ 

“ ‘ It  is  because  my  aunt,  who  knows  how  to  draw  out  genealogical 
trees,  has  thought  fit  to  forget  the  ancient  and  venerable  one  from 
which  we  have  sprung.  But  a genealogical  tree,  upon  which  our  j;lo- 
rious  but  dark  history  has  been  written  in  characters  of  blood,  stands 
yet  upon  the  neighboring  mountains/ 

“ As  Albert  became  very  animated  in  speaking  thus,  and  my  uncle’s 
countenance  appeared  to  darken,  the  abbe,  much  as  his  curiosity  was 
excited,  endeavored  to  give  the  conversation  a different  turn.  But 
mine  would  not  suffer  me  to  remain  silent  when  so  fair  an  opportu- 
nity presented  itself  for  satisfying  it.  “ ‘ What  do  you  mean,  Albert?* 
I exclaimed,  approaching  him. 

“ ‘ I mean  that  which  a Podiebrad  should  not  be  ignorant  of/  he  re 
plied:  ‘ that  the  oil  oak  of  the  Stone  of  Terror,  which  you  see  every 
day  from  your  window,  Ame.ia,  and  under  which  you  should  never 
sit  down  without  raising  your  soul  to  God,  bore,  some  three  hundred 
years  ago,  fruit  rather  heavier  than  the  dried  acorns  it  produces  to- 
day/ 

“ ‘ It  Is  a shocking  story/  said  the  chaplain,  horror-struck,  ‘ and  I 
do  not  know  who  could  have  informed  the  count  of  it/ 

“ ‘ The  tradition  of  the  country,  and  perhaps  something  more  cer- 
tain still/  replied  Albert. — ‘ You  have  in  vain  burned  the  archives  of 
the  family,  and  the  records  of  history,  Mr.  Chaplain ; in  vain  imposed 
silence  on  the  simple  by  sophistry,  on  the  weak  by  threats : neither 
the  dread  of  despotic  power,  however  great,  nor  even  that  of  hell  it- 
self, can  stifle  the  thousand  voices  of  the  past  which  awaken  on 
every  side.  No,  no  I they  speak  too  loudly,  these  terrible  voices,  for 
that  of  a priest  to  hush  them ! They  speak  to  our  souls  in  sleep,  in 
the  whisperings  of  spirits  from  the  dead ; they  appeal  to  us  in  every 
sound  we  hear  in  the  external  world;  they  issue  even  from  the 
trunks  of  the  trees,  like  the  gods  of  the  olden  time,  to  tell  us  of  the 
crimes  the  misfortunes,  and  the  noble  deeds  of  our  ancestor* ! ’ 


Wok  icelo.  18f 

**And  why,  poor  child/  said  the  canoness,  ‘why  cherish  in  yow 
mind  such  bitter  thoughts — such  dreadful  recollections  ? ’ 

“ 4 It  is  your  genealogies,  dear  aunt — it  is  your  recurrence  to  the 
times  that  are  gone — which  have  pictured  to  my  mind  those  fifteen 
monks  hung  to  the  branches  of  the  oak  by  the  hand  of  one  of  my  an- 
cestors— the  greatest,  the  most  terrible,  the  most  persevering — he  wht/ 
was  surnamed  the  Terrible— the  blind,  the  invincible  John  Ziska  of 
the  Chalice  I ’ 

“ The  exalted,  yet  abhorred  name  of  the  chief  of  the  Taborites,  a 
sect  which,  during  the  war  of  the  Hussites,  surpassed  all  other  reli- 
gionists in  their  energy,  their  bravery,  and  their  cruelty,  fell  like  a 
thunderbolt  on  the  ears  of  the  abbe  and  the  chaplain.  The  latter 
crossed  himself,  and  my  aunt  drew  back  her  chair,  which  was  close  to 
that  of  Albert.  ‘"Good  Heaven  1 9 she  exclaimed,  ‘of  what  and  of 
whom  does  this  child  speak  ? Do  not  heed  him,  Mr.  Abbe ! Never— 
no,  never — was  our  family  connected  by  any  ties,  either  of  kindred  or 
friendship,  with  the  odious  reprobate  whose  name  has  just  been  men- 
tioned/ 

“ ‘ Speak  for  yourself,  aunt/  said  Albert,  with  energy ; you  are  a 
Kudolstadt  to  the  heart’s  core,  although  in  reality  a Podiebrad.  As 
for  myself,  I have  more  Bohemian  blood  in  my  veins — all  the  purer, 
too,  for  its  having  less  foreign  admixture.  My  mother  had  neither 
Saxons,  Bavarians,  nor  Prussians,  in  her  genealogical  tree;  she  was 
of  pure  Sclavonic  origin.  And  since  you  appear  to  care  little  for  no- 
bility, I,  who  am  proud  of  my  descent,  shall  inform  you  of  it,  if  you 
are  ignorant,  that  John  Ziska  left  a daughter,  who  married  the  lord 
of  Prachalitz,  and  that  my  mother  herself,  being  a Prachalitz,  de- 
scends in  a direct  line  from  John  Ziska,  just  as  you  yourself,  my  aunt 
descend  from  the  Rudolstadts/ 

“ ‘ It  is  a dream,  a delusion,  Albert! ’ 

“ ‘ Not  so,  dear  aunt ; I appeal  to  the  chaplain,  who  is  a God-fearing 
man,  and  will  speak  the  truth.  He  has  had  in  his  hands  the  parch- 
ments which  prove  what  I have  asserted/ 

“ ‘ I ? ’ exclaimed  the  chaplain,  pale  as  death. 

“‘You  may  confess  it  without  blushing,  before  the  abbe/  replied 
Albert,  with  cutting  irony,  ‘ since  you  only  did  your  duty  as  an  Aus- 
trian subject,  and  a good  Catholic,  in  burning  them  the  day  after  my 
mother’s  death/ 

“ ‘ That  deed,  which  my  conscience  approved,  was  witnessed  by 
God  alone/  falteringly  replied  the  chaplain,  terror-stricken  at  the  dis- 
closure of  a secret  of  which  he  considered  himself  the  sole  human  re- 
pository. ‘ Who,  Count  Albert,  could  have  revealed  it  to  you?  ’ 

“ ‘ I have  already  told  you,  Mr.  Chaplain — a voice  which  speaks 
louder  than  that  of  a priest/ 

“ ‘ What  voice,  Albert?’  I exclaimed,  with  emotion. 

“ ‘ The  voice  which  speaks  in  sleep/  replied  Albert. 

“ ‘ But  that  explains  nothing,  my  son/  said  Count  Christian,  sigh- 
ing. 

“ ‘ It  is  the  voice  of  blood,  my  father/  said  Albert,  in  a tone  eo 
sepulchral  that  it  made  us  shudder. 

“ ‘ Alas ! ’ said  my  uncle,  clasping  his  hands,  ‘ these  are  the  same 
reveries,  the  same  phantoms  of  the  imagination,  which  haunted  hia 
poor  mother.  She  must  have  spoken  of  it  to  our  child  in  her  last  ill- 
ness/  he  added,  turning  to  my  aunt,  ‘ and  such  a story  was  well  cal?; 
eulated  to  make  a lively  impression  on  hia  memory/ 


1*4 


CONSUELO, 


44  4 That,  brother,  were  impossible,’  replied  the  canoness,  4 Albert 
was  not  yet  three  years  old  when  he  lost  his  mother.’ 

44  4 It  is  more  reasonable  to  suppose,’  said  the  chaplain,  in  a whisper, 
4 that  some  of  those  accursed  heretical  documents,  full  of  lies  and  tis- 
sues of  impiety,  which  she  had  hoarded  up  from  family  pride,  and 
which  she  had  yet  the  virtue  to  deliver  up  to  me  at  her  last  hour,  must 
have  been  preserved  in  the  house.’ 

“‘Not  one  of  these  remained,’  returned  Albert,  who  had  not  missed 
one  syllable  that  the  chaplain  had  uttered,  though  he  spoke  very  low, 
and  Albert  was  striding  about  in  great  agitation  at  the  farthest  ex- 
tremity of  the  grand  salooi.  4 You  knew  right  well,  Monsieur  Chap- 
lain, that  you  destroyed  them  all,  and  that  the  very  day  after  her 
death,  you  searched  and  rummaged  every  corner  of  her  apartments.’ 

44  4 Who  has  thus  presumed  to  assist,  or  rather,  bewilder  your  mem- 
ory ? ’ asked  Count  Christian  sternly.  4 What  unfaithful  or  imprudent 
servant  has  ventured  to  disturb  your  young  spirit  by  a recital,  of  course, 
all  exaggerated  and  distorted,  of  these  domestic  events  ? ’ 

44  4 No  one,  my  father.  On  my  religion  and  my  conscience  I swear 
it  to  you.’ 

44  4 The  arch  enemy  of  man  has  interfered  in  all  this!’  exclaimed 
the  chaplain,  in  utter  consternation. 

44  4 It  would  be  more  consistent  with  reason  and  with  Christianity,* 
observed  the  abbe,  4 to  conclude  that  Count  Albert  is  endowed  with  a 
prodigious  memory,  and  events,  the  sight  of  which  rarely  produce 
strong  impressions  on  the  minds  of  the  young,  have  beome  fixed  in 
his  memory.  All  that  I have  seen  of  his  extraordinary  intellect  leads 
me  easily  to  accept  the  belief  that  his  reason  was  most  precociously 
developed,  and  as  to  his  faculty  of  retaining  the  remembrance  of 
things,  I have  often  taken  note  of  it  as  extraordinary.’ 

44  4 It  only  appears  extraordinary  to  you,  because  you  do  not  possess 
it  in  the  least,’  replied  Albert,  drily.  4 For  instance,  you  do  not  remem- 
ber what  you  did  in  the  year  1619,  after  Withold  Podiebrad,  the 
Protestant,  the  valiant  and  the  faithful — your  grand-sire,  my  dear 
aunt— the  last  who  bore  that  name,  reddened  the  Stone  of  Terror  with 
his  blood.  You  have  forgotten,  I would  lay  any  4wager,  your  own 
conduct  at  that  crisis.  Monsieur  Abbe.’ 

4 4 ‘ I have  indeed  forgotten  it  entirely,  ’ said  the  abbe,  with  a 
sneering  smile,  which  was  in  the  very  worst  taste  at  a moment 
when  it  was  becoming  apparent  to  us  all  that  Albert  was  totally  out 
of  his  senses. 

4 4 4 Well,  then,’  resumed  Albert,  in  no  sort  disconcerted,  4 1 will  re- 
call it  to  your  memory.  You  went  with  all  speed,  and  advised  the 
Imperialist  soldiers,  who  had  done  the  deed,  to  take  hiding  or  to  fly, 
because  the  mechanics  of  Pilsen,  who  were  courageous  enough  to 
boast  themselves  Protestants,  and  who  adored  Withold,  were  already 
afoot  to  avenge  their  lord’s  death,  and  bent  on  hewing  them  to 
pieces.  Then  you  came  to  my  ancestress,  Ulrica,  the  terrified  and 
trembling  widow  of  Count  Withold,  and  pledged  yourself  to  make  her 
peace  with  the  Emperor  Ferdinand  II.,  to  procure  the  preservation  to 
her  of  all  her. possessions,  of  all  her  titles,  of  her  own  liberty,  and  the 
Ufe  of  her  children,  if  she  would  follow  your  advice,  and  pay  your 
services  at  th3  rate  of  their  weight  in  gold.  She  consented,  or  rather 
her  matema  love,  not  she,  consented  to'  that  act  of  weakness.  Sha 
suspected  no  longir  the  martyrdom  of  her  noble  spouse.  She  was  a 
Catholic  by  birth,  and  had  abjured  her  own  faith  only  through  love 


COK8U1LO- 


185 

ibr  him.  She  could  not,  therefore,  contemplate  the  endurance  of 
misery,  proscription,  persecution,  in  order  to  preserve  to  the  children 
of  Withold  a faith  to  which  he  had  signed  his  own  adherence  with  his 
blood,  and  a name  which  he  had  rendered  of  late  more  famous  than 
that  of  all  his  ancestors,  whether  they  were  called  Hussites , Calixtins , 
Taborites,  Orphans , United  Brethren , or  Lutherans .’  All  these 
names,  my  dear  Porporina,  are  the  titles  of  different  sects,  which  ad- 
hered to  the  heresies  of  John  Huss  and  of  Luther,  and  to  which  it  is 
probable  that  branch  of  the  Podiebrads  from  which  we  are  descend 
ed  had  attached  itself.  4 At  length,’  continued  Albert,  4 the  Saxon 
woman  was  terrified,  and  yielded.  You  took  possession  of  the  castle, 
compelled  the  withdrawal  of  the  Imperialists,  caused  our  territories 
to  be  respected,  and  made  a public  auto  da  fe  of  all  our  titles  and 
hereditary  archives.  It  was  therefore  that  my  aunt,  to  her  own 
great  satisfaction,  has  been  prevented  from  re-establishing  the  gene- 
alogical tree  of  the  Podiebrads,  and  has  fallen  back  upon  the  more 
sterile  pastures  of  the  Rudolstadts.  To  reward  your  services  you 
were  made  rich,  vastly  rich.  Three  months  later,  permission  was 
given  Ulrica  to  go  to  Vienna,  there  to  embrace  the  knees  of  the  Em- 
peror, who  very  generously  consented  to  her  denationalizing  her  chil- 
dren and  causing  them  to  be  educated  by  you  in  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith,  and  to  be  enrolled  under  those  very  banners  against  which  their 
father  and  their  forefathers  had  fought  so  valiantly  and  so  long.  We 
were  incorporated,  I and  my  sons,  in  the  ranks  of  Austrian  tyranny. 

You  and  your  sons!’  cried  my  aunt  in  despair,  seeing  that  he 
was  now  utterly  astray. 

“ 4 Yes,  my  sons  Sigismund  and  Rudolph/  replied  Albert,  very  seri- 
ously. 

“ 4 Those  are  the  names  of  my  father  and  my  uncle ! ’ cried  Count 
Christian.  ‘Albert,  where  is  your  reason?  Be  yourself  again,  ray 
ion.  Above  a century  has  elapsed  since  those  sad  events  were 
wrought  out  by  the  will  of  Providence.’ 

“ Albert  would  not  give  up  the  point.  He  had  persuaded  himself, 
and  would  have  persuaded  us,  that  he  was  the  same  Wratislaw,  the  son 
of  Podiebrad,  who  bore  the  maternal  name  of  Rudolstadt.  He  related 
to  us  all  the  events  of  his  childhood,  the  distinct  recollection  which  he 
preserved  of  the  execution  of  Count  Withold,  an  execution  which  he  as- 
cribed solely  to  the  odious  Jesuit,  Dithmar,  who,  according  to  him,  was 
no  other  than  the  abbe,  his  present  tutor, — the  deep  hatred  which  he 
had  entertained  from  his  childood  upward  for  this  Dithmar,  for  Austria, 
and  in  a word,  for  all  Imperialists  and  Catholics.  Beyond  this'  reccllec* 
tion  all  appeared  to  become  chaotic,  and  he  uttered  a thousand  incom- 
prehensible dicta  about  eternal  and  perpetual  life,  asserting  the  reap- 
pearance of  men  on  earth,  that  John  Huss  was  predestined  to  return 
to  Bohemia  a hundred  years  after  his  death— a prediction  which,  as  he 
asserted,  had  already  met  its  accomplishment — since,  as  he  insisted, 
Luther  was  no  other  than  John  Huss  resuscitated.  In  a word,  his 
conversation  became  a confused  jargon  of  heresy,  superstition,  dim 
metaphysics,  and  poetical  raving,  and  yet  all  was  uttered  with  such  an 
air  of  conviction,  with  such  a preservation  of  details,  and  with  state- 
ments so  interesting  of  what  he  pretended  to  have  seen,  not  only  in 
the  person  of  Wratislaw,  but  also  in  that  of  John  Ziska,  and  I know 
hot  how  many  dead  persons  beside,  whom  he  maintained  to  have  been 
no  other  than  previous  incarnations  of  himself  in  a prior  state  of  ex- 
istence, that  we  all  stood  listening  to  him  with  open  mouths,  without 


136 


COH0UKLO. 

the  power  of  either  intei/nipting  or  contradicting  him.  My  xnele  % 
aunt,  who  were  ineffably  horror-stricken  by  these  hallucination*,  which 
were  in  their  eyes  actually  impious,  were  anxious,  at  least,  to  pene- 
trate them  to  the  bottom,  for  they  had  never  developed  themselves 
openly  at  any  prior  period;  and  in  order  to  cure,  it  was  necessary,  be- 
yond doubt,  to  comprehend  them.  The  abbe  persisted  in  endeavoring 
to  attribute  the  whole  matter  to  a joke,  and  to  maTce  us  believe  that 
the  Count  Albert’s  temper  was  a compound  of  malicious  drollery,  and 
that  lie  was  amusing  himself  by  mystifying  us  with  his  unparalleled 
erudition.  ‘ He  has  read  so  much,’  said  he,  ‘ that  he  can  re-word  the 
history  of  all  ages,  chapter  by  chapter,  with  such  minute  details,  that 
no  one  who  hears  him,  how  little  inclined  he  may  be  soever  to  give 
credit  to  tne  marvellous,  can  easily  doubt  that  he  must  have  been  pres- 
ent at  the  scenes  which  he  describes  so  much  to  the  life.’  The  can- 
noness,  who,  in  her  ardent  devotion,  is  not,  after  all,  very  far  removed 
from  superstition,  and  who  was  beginning  to  believe  her  nephew  on 
his  word,  took  the  abbe’s  insinuations  altogether  in  a false  light,  and 
told  him  that  she  would  advise  him  to  keep  his  jocose  explanations  for 
Borne  gayer  occasion,  and  then  made  an  earnest  effort  to  induce  Al- 
bert to  retract  the  efforts  of  which  his  head  was  so  full. 

“ 1 Beware,  aunt! ’ exclaimed  Albert,  impatiently,  i beware  lest  I be 
compelled  to  tell  you  who  you  are.  Hitherto  I have  avoided  the 
knowledge,  but  something  is  whispering  to  me,  even  now,  that  the 
Saxon  Ulrica  is  beside  me ! ’ 

“ i What,  my  poor  son,’  she  answered,  ‘ do  you  take  me  for  that 
kind  and  devoted  ancestress  who  had  wit  to  preserve  to  her  descend- 
ants independence,  life,  and  the  honors  which  they  still  enjoy?  Do 
you  think  that  she  is  raised  to  life  in  my  person?  Well,  Albert,  I 
love  you  so  well  that  I would  do  yet  more  than  she  for  you ; I would 
sacrifice  my  life  if  I were  able  at  this  very  moment  to  give  rest  and 
peace  to  your  perturbed  spirit.’ 

“ Albert  gazed  at  her  for  some  seconds  with  eyes  of  blended  stern- 
ness and  affection,  but  at  length,  kneeling  down  before  her,  he  ex- 
claimed, ‘ No,  no,  you  are  an  angel,  and  you  were  a communicant  of 
old  in  the  wooden  chalice  of  the  Hussites.  But  the  Saxon  woman  is 
here,  notwithstanding,  and  already  several  times  her  voice  has  this  day 
echoed  in  my  ears.’ 

“ * Beware  lest  it  should  prove  to  be  1/  said  I in  my  turn,  persist- 
ing in  the  endeavor  to  give  a gay  turn  to  the  whole  subject,  ‘ and  at 
all  events  blame  me  not  that  I would  not  surrender  you  to  the  execu 
tioners  in  the  year  1619.’ 

ui  You,  my  mother!’  he  then  cried,  gazing  on  me  with  an  expres- 
sion that  really  alarmed  me ; * for  if  it  be  so,  I cannot  pardon  you. 
God  caused  me,  when  born  again,  to  be  born  of  a stronger  woman ; he 
rebaptised  me  in  ray  own  substance,  which  had  been  lost,  I know  not 
how,  in  the  blood  of  Zisca.  Amelia,  look  not  at  me,  above  all,  speak 
not  to  me,  for  it  is  your  blood  that  inflicts  upon  me  all  that  I this  day 
endure.’ 

“ And  with  these  words  he  left  the  room  hastily,  and  we  all  stood 
disconcerted  at  the  fatal  discovery  which  we  had  made,  at  length,  of 
the  total  derangement  of  his  intellects. 

“ It  was  at  that  time  about  two  hours  after  noon ; we  had  dined 
very  quietly ; Albert  had  drank  nothing  but  water,  so  that  we  could 
not  even  deceive  ourselves  into  the  idea  that  his  hallucinations  were 
the  result  of  intoxication.  My  aunt  and  the  chaplain,  who  fancied 


veil  W t «.  18? 

that  1m  mutt  be  exceedingly  ill,  rose  at  once  and  followed  him,  In  ov 
der  to  give  him  their  care.  But  what  is  quite  incomprehensible,  h| 
had  already  disappeared,  as  if  by  enchantment.  He  was  not  to  be 
found  in  his  own  apartment,  nor  in  that  of  his  mother,  where  he  was 
often  wont  to  conceal  himself,  nor  in  any  corner  of  the  castle.  He 
was  sought  for  in  the  gardens,  in  the  warren,  in  the  surrounding 
woods,  among  the  mountains,  but  far  or  near,  no  one  had  laid  eyes  on 
him.  Not  a track  of  his  footsteps  were  to  be  discovered.  Thus  pass* 
ed  the  day  and  night  Not  a soul  in  the  house  closed  an  eye  or  lay 
down  to  rest 

u The  whole  family  went  to  prayers,  and  the  servants  were  on  foot 
imtil  daybreak,  seeking  him  with  torches.  The  next  day  passed  amid 
the  like  solicitudes,  the  next  night  amid  the  like  terrors.  I cannot 
describe  to  you  the  terrors  which  I suffered — I,  who  had  never  be- 
fore known  what  it  is  to  suffer,  never  had  to  tremble  during  all  my 
life  before  at  any  domestic  events  of  importance.  I begun  seriously 
to  believe  that  Albert  had  either  committed  suicide,  or  made  his  es- 
cape forever.  I fell  into  convulsions,  and  afterwards  contracted  a 
violent  fever.  I had  still  a remnant  of  love  left  within  me,  in  spite 
of  all  the  terror  with  which  this  fatal  and  fantastical  being  inspired 
me.  My  father  still  kept  up  his  courage  enough  to  go  out  hunting 
daily,  in  the  conviction  that  he  should  one  day  find  Albert  in  the 
woods.  My  poor  aunt,  consumed  by  her  sorrow,  but  still  courageous 
and  energetic,  nursed  me  tenderly,  and  endeavored  to  keep  up  the 
courage  of  every  one.  My  uncle  prayed  both  night  and  day,  and 
when  I observed  his  faith  and  stoical  resignation  to  the  will  of  heaven, 
I regretted  that  I could  not  participate  in  his  devotion. 

“ The  abbe  affected  a little  annoyance.  6 It  is  true/  said  he,  1 that  ‘ 
Albert  has  never  before  departed  in  the  like  manner  from  my  pres- 
ence, but  he  has  always  appeared  to  stand  in  need  of  moments  of 
solitude  and  self-examination.*  It  was  his  idea  that  the  only  mode  of 
conquering  these  notions  of  his,  was  never  to  contradict  them.  In 
fact,  this  under-bred  person  was  a mere  selfish  and  subtle  intriguer, 
who  only  cared  to  gain  the  large  salary  attached  to  his  duties  as 
tutor  and  in  order  to  make  them  last  as  long  as  possible,  had  deliber- 
ately deceived  the  family  as  related  to  his  good  offices.  Engaged  in 
his  own  pleasures  or  occupations,  he  had  abandoned  Albert  to  his 
own  utmost  irregularities.  It  is  probable  that  he  had  often  seen  him 
sick,  and  often  in  his  fits  of  delirium,  but  undoubtedly  he  had  always 
given  free  scope  to  all  his  fantasies.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  he  had 
possessed  the  ability  to  conceal  them  from  all  who  had  the  means  of 
giving  us  information  concerning  them,  as  all  the  letters  which  my 
uncle  ever  received  on  the  subject  of  his  son,  were.filled  with* admir- 
ation of  his  manners  and  person,  and  congratulations  on  his  advan- 
tages of  bearing  and  appearance.  Albert  seems  nowhere  to  have  left 
the  impression  on  any  mind  that  he  was  either  ill  in  body  or  in  mind. 
Whatever  be  may  be  now,  his  mental  existence  during  these  eight 
years  is  to  this  very  hour  an  impenetrable  secret,  withheld  from  all  of 
us.  At  the  expiration  of  three  days,  the  abbe,  seeing  that  he  did  not 
return,  and  fearing  that  his  own  prospects  would  be  ruined  by  this 
catastrophe,  left  the  castle,  stating  himself  that  he  was  setting  out  for 
Prague,  whither,  according  to  his  assertions,  the  wish  to  obtain  soma 
rare  book  might  have  led  his  pupil.  4 He  is/  said  he,  4 like  thoea 
learned  men  who  bury  themselves  alive  in  their  searches  after  know* 
Vadga,  and  who  forget  the  whole  world  in  the  pursuit  of  thairjnnooaal 


J 


188 


C0NSTTEL5. 


passion.’  So,  with  such  consolation  as  his  words  imparted,  the  abbe 
took  himself  away  and  w&.saw  him  no  more. 

“At  length,  when  seven  clays  of  mortal  anguish  had  expired,  and 
we  had  begun  utterly  to  despair,  my  aunt,  happening  to  pass  by  Al- 
bert’s open  door,  in  the  afternoon,  saw  him  seated  in  his  arm-chair, 
caressing  his  dog,  which  had  followed  him  mysteriously  in  his  jour- 
ney. His  garments  were  neither  soiled  nor  rent,  but  the  gold  em- 
broideries were  tarnished,  as  if  he  had  been  dwelling  in  a damp  place, 
or  had  been  passing  his  nights  in  the  open  air.  His  shoes  did  not 
show  as  though  he  had  walked  far,  but  his  beard  and  hair  shewed 
that  for  a long  time  past  he  had  utterly  neglected  the  care  of  his  person. 
From  that  day  forth  he  has  constantly  refused  either  to  shave  his 
beard,  or  powder  his  hair,  like  other  men  of  his  rank.  That  is  what 
made  you  fancy  that  he  looks  like  a ghost. 

“ My  aunt  rushed  up  to  him  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

“ ‘ What  ails  you,  my  dear  aunt?’  said  he,  kissing  her  hand;  ‘ one 
would  suppose  you  had  not  seen  me  in  the  last  century.’ 

“‘Unhappy  boy!’  she  answered,  ‘it  is  seven  days  since  you  have 
left  us;  seven  days  of  anguish,  seven  nights  of  horror,  that  we  have 
sought  you,  bewept  you,  prayed  for  you ! ’ 

“ ‘ Seven  days ! ’ cried  Albert,  gazing  at  her  in  wonder ; ‘ seven 
hours  you  mean,  I fancy;  for  I went  out  this  morning  to  take  a walk, 
and  here  I am  hotne  in  time  to  sup  with  you.  How  then  can  I have 
alarmed  you  so  by  so  short  an  absence  ? * 

“‘Ah!  I have  made  a slip  of  the  tongue,’  she  answered  readily, 
afraid  of  aggravating  his  mood.  ‘ I meant  to  say  seven  hours,  of 
course.  I grew  uneasy,  because  you  are  not  wont  to  take  such  long 
walks ; and,  again,  I had  a horrible  dream  this  evening.  I was  very 
silly,  indeed.’ 

“‘Ah,  my  dear  good  aunt,’  said  Albert,  still  kissing  her  hands,  ‘ you 
dote  on  me  still  as  if  I were  a little  child.  I hope  my  father  has  not 
been  equally  alarmed  about  me.’ 

“ ‘ By  no  means ! He  is  waiting  supper  for  you ; you  must  be  very 
hungry  ? ’ 

“ ‘ No,  not  very.  I made  a very  good  dinner.’ 

“ ‘ Where,  and  when,  Albert  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Here  at  noon,  with  all  of  you,  my  good  aunt ; where  else  ? You 
have  not  come  to  yourself,  I see ; oh ! how  much  I reproach  myself  for 
so  alarming  you.  But  how  could  I foresee  it  ? ’ 

“‘You  know  that  it  is  often  thus  with  me.  Let  me  then  enquire 
what  you  have  eaten,  and  where  you  have  slept  since  you  left  us.’ 

“ ‘ How  should  I be  dtoosed  to  eat  or  sleep  since  this  morning  ? ’ 

“ ‘ And  do  you  not  fcwill  ? ’ 

Not  a particle.’ 

“ ‘ Nor  fatigued  ? I doubt  not  you  have  walked  far,  and  climbed  the 
hills— such  walks  are  very  toilsome.  Where  have  you  been? ’ 

“ Albert  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  were  anxious  to 
recollect  himself,  but  he  could  tell  nothing. 

“ ‘ I suppose  I walked,’  he  said  at  length,  ‘ as  I did  when  I was  a 
child,  without  seeing  anything,  for  I must  admit  that  I know  nothing 
about  it.  I suppose  I was  very  absent.  You  know  I have  never  had 
the  power  of  giving  you  the  facts  when  you  questioned  me.’ 

“ ‘ And  while  you  were  travelling  have  you  paid  no  more  attention 
than  of  old  to  what  you  saw  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Sometimes,  yes— sometimes,  no.  I remember  much  that  I have 
•ecn,  but,  thank  God ! X forget  much  more.* 


189 


0 O H t u ii  c. 

Why  thank  God  t 9 
* ‘ Because  there  is  so  much  misery  to  be  seen  m .he  world/  saHl 
he,  rising,  with  a gloomy  expression,  which  my  aunt  had  not  previous- 
ly observed  in  him.  She  saw  that  it  would  not  do  to  prolong  the  con- 
versation with  him,  and  hurried  away  to  announce  his  son’s  return  to 
my  uncle.  No  one  in  the  house  as  yet  knew  it ; no  one  had  seen  him 
come  in.  His  return  had  left  no  visible  marks  more  than  his  depar- 
ture. 

“ My  poor  uncle,  who  had  borne  his  sorrow  with  so  much  constancy 
and  courage,  was  found  wanting  in  the  first  moments  of  joy.  He 
fainted  away,  and,  when  Albert  made  his  appearance,  was  the  most 
altered  of  the  two;  but  in  that  time  Albert,  who,  since  his  long  jour- 
neying, had  seemed  insensible  to  every  emotion,  was  once  more  en 
tirely  changed,  and  different  from  all  that  he  had  been  hitherto.  He 
offered  his  father  a thousand  caresses,  became  very  uneasy  at  seeing 
the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  him,  and  was  anxious  to  learn 
the  cause  of  it.  But  when  theky  felt  themselves  capable  of  telling  him 
the  reasons  of  it,  he  never  could  understand  what  had  passed,  and 
everything  he  said  bore  on  it  such  a stamp  of  sincerity  and  good  faith, 
that  they  could  not  doubt  that  he  was  really  ignorant  where  he  had 
been  during  his  seven  days’  absence.” 

“ What  you  tell  me,”  said  Consuelo,  “ is  like  a dream,  and  is  more 
like,  my  dear  baroness,  to  set  me  musing,  than  to  put  me  to  sleep. 
How  can  it  be  that  a man  should  live  seven  days  unconscious  of  all 
things  ? ” 

“ This  is  nothing  to  what  I have  yet  to  tell  you,  and  until  you  have 
seen  with  your  own  eyes  that  instead  of  exaggerating  I extenuate 
matters,  and  abridge  them,  you  will,  I can  easily  conceive,  have  no 
trouble  to  believe  me.  I tell  you  that  which  I myself  have  seen ; and 
I sometimes  ask  myself,  even  now,  whether  Albert  is  a sorcerer,  or  ic 
merely  amusing  himself  at  our  expense.  But  it  is  growing  late,  and 
I am  exhausting  your  good-nature.” 

“ I rather  am  exhausting  yours,”  said  Consuelo ; “ you  must  be  tired 
of  talking.  Let  us,  if  you  will,  put  off  the  sequel  of  this  strange  tale 
till  to-morrow  evening.” 

u To-morrow  be  it  then,”  said  the  young  baroness,  taking  leave  of 
her  with  a kiss. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

This  strange  story  to  which  she  had  been  listening  kept  Consuelo 
long  awake.  The  night,  dark,  rainy,  and  full  of  wild  resounding  gusts, 
added  «tot  a little  to  superstitious  dreams,  of  which  she  had  never 
dreamed  before.  u Is  there,  then,”  she  mused  with  herself,  “ some 
.trange  destiny  which  weighs  down  certain  beings?  How  can  this 
girl,  who  has  been  speaking  to  me  for  the  last  half  hour,  have  sc 
offended  Providence,  when  she  is  so  frank  and  sincere  as  to  her 
wounded  self-love,  and  her  bright  dreams  overcast?  Nay,  how  can  I 
myself  so  have  sinned  as  to  deserve  such  a disruption  of  my  love,  such 
a shock  to  my  heart  ? And,  alas ! what  can  this  frenzied  Albert  of 
Rudolstadt  have  committed,  that  he  has  thus  lost  all  self-knowledge, 
and  all  self-governance?  What  detestation  could  have  moved  Provfc 


CON8UEIO, 


140 

Aenoe  to  jo  abandon  Anzoleto  t c all  depraved  senses  and  pervsno 
temptations?” 

Overpowered  at  last  by  weariless,  she  slept,  and  lost  herself  in  a 
maze  of  unmeaning  and  inconsequential  dreams.  Twice  or  thrioe 
•he  awoke  and  slept  again,  ignorant  where  she  was,  and  fancying  her- 
self still  on  her  journey.  Porpora,  Anzoleto,  the  Count  Zustiniani, 
and  Corilla,  all  floated  before  her,  repeating  strange  and  dolorous 
words,  charging  her  with  crimes,  the  penalty  of  which  she  seemed  to 
hear,  without  any  memory  of  their  commission.  But  all  her  other 
visions  waned  before  that  of  Count  Albert,  who  ever  flitted  across  her 
eyes,  with  his  black  beard,  his  glassy  eye,  and  his  gold-laced  sable 
garb,  now  sprinkled  with  tears,  like  a moist  cloth. 

At  length,  awaking  with  a start,  she  saw  Amelia,  already  dressed, 
all  fresh  and  smiling,  by  her  bed-side. 

“Do  you  know,  dear  Porporina,”  said  the  young  baroness,  kissing 
her  on  the  brow,  “ that  you,  too,  have  something  strange  about  you? 
Am  I fated  to  live  with  supernatural  persons?  for  certainly  you,  too, 
are  one.  I have  been  watching  you  asleep  this  half  hour,  to  see  if 
you  are  prettier  than  I by  daylight  I confess  I should  be  vexed  if 
you  were,  for  though  I have  utterly  and  earnestly  discarded  all  my 
love  of  Albert  forever,  I should  be  piqued  to  see  him  smitten  with 
you.  What  would  you  have  ? He  is  the  only  man  here.  Hitherto  I 
the  only  woman.  Now  we  are  two,  and  we  shall  have  a crow  to  pick 
if  you  outshine  me  wholly.” 

“ You  love  to  jest ! ” said  Consuelo,  “ but  it  is  not  kind  of  you.  But 
leave  off  such  nonsense,  and  tell  me  what  there  is  odd  about  me.  Per* 
haps  I am  grown  uglier  than  ever;  I dare  say  it  is  so.” 

“ To  tell  you  the  truth,  Nina,  my  first  look  at  you  this  morning, 
with  your  pale  face,  your  great  eyes,  half  shut,  and  rather  fixed  than 
sleeping,  and  your  thin  arm  lying  on  the  coverlid,  did  give  me  a mo- 
mentary triumph.  Then,  as  I gazed  on  you  still,  I grew  frightened  at 
your  motionless  attitude,  and  your  truly  royal  air.  Your  arm  is 
queen-like,  I insist  on  it ; and  your  calmness  has  a dominion  and  a 
power  in  it  of  which  I can  give  no  account.  Now  I think  you  hor- 
ribly beautiful,  and  yet  there  is  gentleness  in  all  your  aspect.  Tell  me 
what  you  are,  who  at  once  attract  and  alarm  me.  I am  ashamed  of 
all  the  follies  I told  you  of  myself  last  night.  As  yet  you  have  told 
me  nothing  of  yourself,  and  yet  you  are  aware  of  almost  all  my  faults.” 
“ If  I have  a queenly  air,  I certainly  never  dreamed  I had  it,”  re- 
plied Consuelo,  with  a wan  smile.  “ It  must  be  the  sad  air  of  a dis- 
crowned one.  As  to  my  beauty,  I have  always  considered  that  more 
than  doubtful ; but  as  to  my  opinion  of  you,  my  dear  Baroness  Amelia, 
I have  no  doubt  of  your  frankness  or  kindness.” 

“Oh!  frank  I am— but  are  you  so,  Nina?  Surely,  you  loak  as  if 
you  had  the  nobleness  of  truth;  but  are  you  communicative?  I fancy 
not” 

“ It  would  not  have  become  me  to  be  so  the  first  It  was  for  you, 
new  patroness  and  mistress  of  my  destiny,  to  make  the  first  advances 
to  me.” 

“You  are  right;  but  your  good  sense  chills  me.  If  I seem  too 
hairbrained  you  won’t  preach  at  me  too  much,  will  you  ? ” 

“ I have  no  right  to  do  so  at  all.  I am  your  music-mistress — no 
more.  Besides,  I am  a poor  girl  of  the  people,  and  how  should  I pre- 
sume to  aspire  above  my  place  ? ” 

" Yen  a poor  girl  af  the  people,  my  proud  Porporina  ? G hi  it  ca&r 


60N8TTBLO.  141 

not  be— Impossible  I I would  rather  believe  vou  the  mysterious  child 
of  some  princely  race.  What  was  your  mother's  profession  ? ” 

“ She  was  a singer,  as  I am ! ” 

* “ And  your  father  ? ” 

Consuelo  was  speechless ; she  had  not  prepared  answers  for  all  the 
rash  familiar  questions  of  the  young  headlong  baroness.  In  truth, 
•he  had  never  heard  her  father  named,  nor  had  thought  of  enquiring 
if  she  had  a father. 

“ Come  I ” said  Amelia,  bursting  out  laughing,  “ it  is  so : I was  sure 
of  it;  your  father  was  some  Spanish  Grandee,  or  Doge  of  Yen  ice.” 

But  to  Consuelo  such  expressions  sounded  light — almost  insulting. 

“ And  so,”  she  said,  “ I presume  an  honest  mechanic,  or  a poor  ar- 
tist, has  not  the  right  to  transmit  to  his  children  any  natural  distinc- 
tions! Must  the  children  of  the  poor  be  necessarily  coarse  and 
deformed  ? ” 

“ My  aunt  Wenceslawa  would  hold  that  to  he  a sarcasm ! ” said  the 
baroness,  laughing  louder  yet.  “ Come,  dear  Nina,  pardon  me  if  I have 
made  you  a little  angry,  and  let  me  build  a better  romance  upon  you, 
in  my  head.  But  dress  yourself  quickly,  my  dear ; the  bell  is  going  to 
ring,  and  my  aunt  would  rather  let  all  the  family  die  of  hunger  than 
breakfast  without  you.  I will  help  you  to  open  your  trunks.  I am 
sure  you  have  brought  some  pretty  dresses  from  Venice,  and  that  you 
will  put  me  up  to  the  last  fashions — me,  who  have  lived  here  so  long 
among  savages.” 

Consuelo  gave  her  the  keys,  scarce  listening  to  her,  while  she  made 
haste  to  dress  her  hair,  and  Amelia  hastened  to  open  the  trunks,  which 
she  expected  to  find  full  of  clothes ; but,  to  her  great  surprise,  she  saw 
nothing  but  old  music  books,  loose  sheets  of  music,  tattered  with 
much  use,  and  manuscripts  apparently  un  decypher  able. 

“ Ah ! what  is  all  this  ? ” she  cried,  wiping  the  dust  from  her  pretty 
fingers ; “ you  have  a mighty  odd  wardrobe,  my  child.” 

“ They  are  treasures ; treat  them  with  respect;,  baroness.  Some  are 
autographs  of  the  greatest  masters,  and  I we  ald  rather  lose  my  voice 
than  miss  returning  them  to  Porpora,  who  lent  them  to  me.”  Ame- 
lia opened  another  box,  which  was  filled  with  ruled  paper,  treatises 
on  music,  and  other  works  on  composition,  harmony,  and  counter- 
point 

“Ah!  I understand,”  said  she,  laughing.  “This  is  your  jewel 
box.” 

“ I have  no  other,”  replied  Consuelo,  “ and  I trust  that  you  will 
often  use  this  one.” 

“ Well— well — I see  that  you  are  a stem  mistress.  But  may  I ask 
you,  my  dear  Nina,  where  you  have  put  your  dresses  ? ” 

“ There,  in  that  little  paper  box,”  said  Consuelo,  going  to  fetch  it, 
and  showing  the  baroness  a little  black  silk  dress,  neatly  and  freshly 
folded. 

“ Is  this  all  f ” asked  Amelia. 

“That  is  ad,  except  my  travelling  dress,”  said  Consuelo.  “But 
when  I have  !>een  a few  days  here  I will  make  another,  just  like  thie, 
that  I may  have  a change.” 

“ Ah,  my  dear,  then  yoi  are  in  mourning?  ” 

“ Perhaps  so,  signora,”  said  Consuelo,  sadly. 

“ Pardon  ne,  I pray.  I ought  to  have  known  from  your  manner 
*b*t  yo*  sad  at  heart,  and  I lo^e  you  even  better  so.  We  sha& 
qrmpatfc  a*  with  each  other  all  the  more  quickly.  For  I also  have 


149 


CONBUXLO. 


causes  enough  for  sorrow,  and  might  as  well  we<*r  mourning  now  fat 
the  husband  who  is  destined  for  m3.  Ah,  my  dear  Nina,  be  not 
scared  at  my  wildness,  it  is  often  put  on  to  conceal  deep  sorrows.” 

They  kissed  each  other  affectionately,  and  went  down  into  tha* 
breakfast  room,  where  they  were  waited  for. 

Consuelo  saw  at  a glance  that  her  modest  black  dress,  and  whits 
handkerchief,  closed  quite  t q her  chin  by  a broach  of  jet,  had  given 
the  canoness  a favorable  opinion  of  her.  The  old  Count  Christian 
was  something  less  reserved,  and  all  were  as  affable  to  her  as  on  the. 
previous  evening.  The  Baron  Frederick,  in  his  courtesy,  had  refrain- 
ed from  going  out  hunting  this  day,  but  he  could  not  find  a word  to 
say,  though  he  had  prepared  a thousand  courtesies  in  advance  for  the 
care  she  was  about  to  take  of  his  daughter.  But  he  sat  down  by  her 
at  the  table,  and  loaded  her  plate  so  assiduously  that  he  had  no  time 
to  attend  to  his  own  meal.  The  chaplain  enquired  of  her  concerning 
their  order  of  processions  in  Venice,  the  luxury  and  decorations  of 
the  churches,  and  the  like,  and  seeing  by  her  replies  that  she  had 
much  frequented  them ; learning  moreover,  that  it  was  in  them  she 
had  been  taught  to  sing,  he  showed  her  much  consideration. 

As  to  Count  Albert,  Consuelo  scarce  dared  raise  her  eyes  to  him,  for 
no  other  reason  than  that  about  him  only  was  she  curious.  She  knew 
not  what  notice  he  had  taken  of  her.  Only  as  she  crossed  the  room 
she  saw  his  reflection  in  a mirror,  and  observed  that  he  was  dressed 
with  some  taste,  though  always  in  black.  It  was  evidently  the  figure 
of  a man  of  noble  rank,  but  his  dishevelled  hair  and  beard,  and  hi? 
darkly  pale  complexion,  gave  him  the  aspect  of  wearing  the  neglected 
head  of  a handsome  fisher  of  the  Adriatic,  on  the  shoulders  of  a no- 
bleman. 

The  music  of  his  voice,  however,  soon  attracted  Consuelo,  and  ere 
long  she  took  the  courage  to  look  at  him.  She  was  surprised  then  to 
find  in  him  the  air  and  manners  of  an  extremely  sensible  man.  He 
spoke  little,  but  with  judgment,  and  when  she  rose  he  offered  her  his 
hand — without  looking  at  her  it  is  true,  for  he  had  not  done  her  that 
honor  since  the  previous  evening — but  with  much  courtesy  and  grace. 
She  trembled  from  head  to  foot  as  she  placed  her  hand  in  that  of  the 
romantic  hero  of  all  the  strange  tales  she  had  heard  the  last  evening. 
She  expected  to  find  it  cold,  as  that  of  a corpse.  But  it  was  soft  and 
warm,  as  that  of  a gentleman.  To  say  the  truth,  Consuelo  could 
scarce  admit  the  fact.  Her  internal  agitation  rendered  her  almost 
giddy,  and  Amelia’s  eye,  which  followed  her  every  movement,  would 
have  completed  her  confusion,  had  she  not  armed  herself  with  dignity 
to  confront  the  sly  and  heedless  girl.  She  returned  the  low  bow 
which  Albert  made  her,  as  he  led  her  to  a seat,  but  not  a glance,  much 
less  a word,  was  exchanged  between  them. 

u Do  you  know,  O,  false-  Porporina,”  said  Amelia  la  hei  ear,  as  eho 
came  down  to  sit  close  beside  her,  “ that  you  are  working  wonders  on 
my  cousin  ? ” 

* I certainty  have  not  seen  it  yet,”  said  Consuelo. 

u That  is  because  you  do  not  deign  to  observe  his  manners 
toward  me.  For  a year  past  he  has  not  offered  me  his  hand  to  pome, 
or  to  go,  and  lo ! now  he  is  executing  it  with  all  grace.  It  is  true 
that  he  is  now  in  one  of  his  most  lucid  intervals.  One  would  say 
that  you  had  brought  him  both  reason  and  health.  But  trust  not  too 
much  to  appearances,  Nina.  It  will  be  with  you  as  with  me.  Aftei 
three  days’  cordiality  he  will  not  even  remember  your  exi^tenc^ 


eottstJULd.  14J 

* I see,”  said  Consuelo,  u this  at  least,  that  I must  get  used  to  jok- 

tot," 

“ Is  it  not  true,  little  aunt,”  whispered  Amelia,  addressing  the  can- 
oness,  who  had  just  taken  her  seat  beside  her  and  Amelia,  “ that  my 
cousin  is  quite  charming  to  our  dear  Porporina?” 

“Do  not  ridicule  him,  Amelia,”  Wenceslawa  answered,  gently. 
“ Mademoiselle  will  learn  the  cause  of  our  regrets  speedily  enough.” 

4<  I am  not  ridiculing  him,  aunt,  but  Albert  is  quite  well  this  morn- 
ing, and  I rejoice  to  see  him,  as  I have  not  seen  him  so  before,  since  I 
have  been  here.  If  he  were  shaved,  and  had  his  hair  powdered,  like 
the  rest  of  the  world,  no  one  would  believe  he  had  ever  been  sick.” 

“ His  calm  and  healthful  aspect  does  strike  me  favorably,”  said  the 
canoness,  “ but  I never  dare  to  hope  for  the  continuance  of  so  favor- 
able a state  of  things.” 

“ How  noble  and  good  an  expression  he  has,”  said  Consuelo,  eager 
to  gratify  the  canoness. 

“Do  you  think  eo?”  said  Amelia,  riveting  on  her  a sportive,  yot 
half-malicious,  glance. 

“ Yes,  I do  think  so,”  said  Consuelo,  firmly,  “ and  I told  you  so  last 
night,  mademoiselle.  Ho  human  face  ever  inspired  me  with  more  re- 
spect” 

“ Ah  1 dear  girl  1 ” cried  the  canoness,  changing  at  once  from  her 
stiff  manner,  and  clasping  Consuelo’s  hand  affectionately.  “ Good 
hearts  readily  recognise  each  other.  I feared  that  my  poor  nepheur 
would  alarm  you.  It  is  such  sorrow  to  me  to  perceive  the  disgust 
which  some  faces  show  on  observing  his  sufferings.  But  you  have 
kind  feelings,  I see  clearly,  and  you  have  distinguished  at  once  that 
this  ailing  and  blighted  frame  contains  a noble  spirit,  worthier  of  a 
better  lot” 

Consuelo  was  moved  almost  to  tears  by  the  words  of  the  good  old 
canoness,  and  kissed  her  withered  hand  respectfully.  Her  heart  felt 
and  sympathised  more  deeply  with  the  old  hunchback  than  with  the 
brilliant  and  frivolous  Amelia. 

They  were  soon  interrupted  ay  the  Baron  Frederick,  who,  counting 
on  his  courage  more  than  on  his  power,  came  up  with  the  idea  of  ask- 
ing a favor  of  la  Signora  Porporina.  More  awkward  with  ladies  than 
even  his  elder  brother — for  that  sort  of  awkwardness  seemed  to  be  so 
far  a faipily  ailment  that  it  was  scarcely  wonderful  to  see  it  developed 
into  wild  rudeness  in  the  case  of  Albert — he  began  to  stammer  out 
an  address  full  of  excuses,  which  Amelia  undertook  to  translate  to 
Consuelo.  “ My  father  asks  you,”  said  she,  “ if  you  feel  courage 
enough  to  undertake  a little  music  after  so  tedious  a journey,  and  if 
it  will  not  be  imposing  too  much  on  your  good  nature,  to  ask  you  to 
hear  my  voice,  and  judge  of  my  method.” 

“ With  all  my  heart,”  said  Consuelo,  jumping  up  quickly,  and  go- 
ing to  the  piano. 

“You  *dll  see,”  whispered  Amelia,  arranging  her  music  on  the 
desk,  “ that  this  will  soon  put  Albert  to  flight,  in  spite  of  both  our 

bright  eyes.’1 

And,  in  fact,  Amelia  had  scarcely  began  her  prelude,  before  Albert 
rose  and  left  the  room  on  tip-toe,  as  if  he  hoped  that  he  should  not 

be  seen. 

u It  is  a great  thing,”  said  Amelia,  still  speaking  in  a whisper, 
u that  he  did  not  bang  the  doors  together  furiously,  as  he  very  often 
does  when  I am  singing.  He  is  quite  amiable,  one  might  say  gallant 
to-day.” 


144 


60HSUKLO, 


Ti  l chmplaln  now  approached  the  harpsichord,  hoping,  as  It  would 
seen,  to  mask  Albert’s  flight;  the  rest  of  the  family  stood  around  in 
a semicircle,  to  hear  Consuelo’s  judgment  of  her  pupil. 

Amelia  dashed  bravely  into  an  air  of  Pergolese’s  Archilles  in  Scy • 
ros,  and  sang  it  intrepidly  from  end  to  end,  with  a fresh  shrill  voice, 
accompanied  by  so  comical  a German  accent,  that  Consuelo,  who 
never  had  heard  aught  the  least  like  it,  could  hardly  restrain  a smile, 
at  every  word.  She  had  no  need  to  listen  to  four  bars,  before  she 
saw  that  the  young  baroness  had  no  true  notion,  no  intelligence  foi 
music  whatsoever.  A flexible  tone  she  had,  and  good  lessons  she 
might  have  taken,  but  her  character  was  too  trifling  to  allow  of  her 
studying  anything  faithfully.  For  the  same  reason  she  had  no  dis- 
trust whatever  of  her  own  powers,  but  hammered  away. with  German 
matter-of-fact  coolness  at  the  most  difficult  and  daring  passages,  and 
banging  her  accompaniment  most  strenuously,  correcting  her  time 
as  she  best  might,  adding  time  to  the  bars  following  other  bars  which 
she  had  curtailed,  and  so  utterly  changing  the  character  of  the  musics, 
that  Consuelo  would  really  have  doubted  what  she  was  listening  to 
had  the  music  not  been  before  her  eyes. 

Nevertheless,  Count  Christian,  who  knew  nothing  at  all  about  the 
matter,  but  who  imagined  his  niece  to  be  as  shy  as  he  would  have 
been  in  her  place,  kept  crying,  to  encourage  her,  “Very  well — very 
well,  Amelia ! Beautiful  music — truly  beautiful  music ! ” 

The  canoness,  who  was  but  little  better  informed,  looked  anxiously 
Into  Consuelo’s  eyes,  to  read  her  opinion ; and  the  baron,  who  liked 
no  music  but  the  tantaras  of  the  hunting-horn,  and  believing  that  her 
song  was  above  his  comprehension,  confidently  expected  the  approval 
of  the  judge.  The  chaplain  also  was  charmed-  with  her  flourishes, 
nothing  like  which  had  ever  reached  his  ears  before  Amelia’s  arrival 
at  the  castle,  and  nodded  his  great  head  to  and  fro,  in  absolute  con- 
tentment 

Consuelo  saw  that  to  tell  them  the  truth  bluntly  would  be  to  thun- 
derstrike  the  whole  family.  She  reserved  herself,  therefore,  for  the 
enlightenment  of  her  pupil  in  private,  on  all  that  she  had  forgot,  and 
all  that  she  had  to  learn ; praised  her  voice,  asked  some  questions  as 
to  her  studies,  approved  the  masters  she  had  been  taught,  and  forbore 
to  tell  her  that  she  had  studied  the  wrong  end  foremost. 

The  party  then  separated,  all  very  well  pleased  with  a trial  which 
had  really  been  a very  severe  one  to  Consuelo.  She  was  obliged  to  go 
and  shut  herself  up  in  her  own  room,  with  the  music  she  had  heard 
bo  profaned,  and  to  read  it  over  with  her  eyes,  and  sing  it  mentally, 
In  order  to  efface  from  her  brain  the  disagreeable  impression  which 
•he  had  received. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

Whew  the  family  came  together  again  in  the  evening,  ConsnelOj. 
who  was  beginning  to  be  more  at  her  ease  with  these  people,  with 
whom  she  was  gradually  becoming  acquainted,  answered  the  quea- 
lions,  which,  in  their  turn,  they  took  courage  to  ask  her,  concerning 
fe*r  country,  her  art,  and  her  travels,  less  briefly  and  more  freely  than 


CONSUBLO, 


146 


•he  had  cared  to  do  before.  She,  however,  still  careftillv  avoided,  ac- 
cording to  the  rule  which  she  had  laid  down  to  herself,  to  speak  of 
her  own  concerns,  and  talked  of  the  things  among  which  she  had 
lived,  without  any  allusion  to  the  part  she  bad  played  therein.  It 
was  all  in  vain  that  the  inquisitive  Amelia  endeavored  to  turn  the 
conversation  to  points  which  should  compel  her  to  enter  upon  her 
own  personal  career,  for  Consuelo,  easily  perceiving  her  artifices,  did 
not  for  a single  instant  betray  the  incognito  which  she  had  resolved 
to  maintain.  It  would  be  difficult  to  explain  why  she  found  a pecu- 
liar charm  in  this  sort  of  mystery.  Several  reasons  conduced  to  it 
In  the  first  place  she  had  promised,  nay,  even  sworn,  to  Porpora  to 
hold  herself  in  such  o.ecresy  and  solitude  as  should  render  it  impossi- 
ble for  Anzoleto  to  discover  her  traces,  even  if  he  should  endeavor  to 
do  so.  A very  needless  precaution,  by  the  way,  for  Anzoleto  was  now 
occupied  only  by  his  career  and  success  at  Venice. 

In  the  second  place,  Consuelo,  who  was  of  course  desirous  of  gain- 
ing the  esteem  and  regard  of  a family  which  had  so  kindly  granted  a 
temporary  asylum  to  her  while  thus  sorrowful  and  deserted,  felt  in- 
stinctively that  she  should  be  much  better  regarded  as  a simple  musi- 
cian, a pupil  of  Porpora’s,  and  a teacher  of  singing,  than  as  a prima 
donna , a woman  of  the  theatre,  and  a celebrated  cantatrice.  She 
knew  that  such  a situation,  once  avowed,  would  leave  her  a very  diffi- 
cult part  to  play  with  that  simple  and  religious  family ; and  it  is  more 
than  probable,  that  even  in  despite  of  Porpora’s  introduction,  the  ar- 
rival of  the  actress  Consuelo,  the  wonder  of  San  Samuel,  would  have 
surprised  and  dismayed  them.  But  if  these  two  powerful  motives  had 
not  existed,  Consuelo  would  have  still  felt  an  anxious  desire  to  conceal 
from  every  one  the  splendors  and  the  misery  of  her  destiny.  Every- 
thing in  her  whole  life  was  so  singularly  complicated,  her  power  with 
her  weakness,  her  glory  with  her  love,  that  she  could  not  raise  a cor- 
ner of  her  mask  without  uncovering  some  wounded  spot. 

This  renunciation  of  vanities,  which  might  have  solaced  another 
woman,  proved  the  salvation  of  this  courageous  being.  In  renounc- 
ing all  compassion,  as  well  as  all  human  glory,  she  felt  celestial 
strength  come  to  her  aid.  “ I must  regain  some  portion  of  my  for- 
mer happiness,”  she  said;  “ that  which  I so  long  enjoyed,  and  which 
consisted  in  loving  and  being  beloved.  The  moment  I sought  the 
world’s  admiration  it  withdrew  its  love,  and  I have  paid  too  dear  for 
the  honors  men  bestowed  in  place  of  their  good-will.  Let  me  begin 
again,  obscure  and  insignificant,  that  I may  be  subjected  neither  to 
envy  not  ingratitude,  nor  enmity  on  the  earth.  The  least  token  of 
sympathy  is  sweet,  and  the  highest  testimony  of  admiration  is  min 
gled  with  bitterness.  If  there  be  proud  and  strong  hearts  to  whom 
praise  suffices,  and  whom  triumph  consoles,  I have  cruelly  experi- 
enced that  mine  is  not  of  the  number.  Alas ! glory  has  torn  my  lov- 
er’s heart  from  me;  let  humility  yield  me  in  return  at  least  some 
friends.” 

It  was  not  thus  that  Porpora  meant.  In  removing  Consuelo  from 
Venice,  and  from  the  dangers  and  agonies  of  her  love,  he  only  in- 
tended to  procure  her  some  repose  before  recalling  her  to  the  scene 
of  ambition,  and  launching  her  afresh  into  the  storms  of  artistic  life. 
He  did  not  know  his  pupil.  lie  believed  her  more  of  a woman— 
that  is  to  say,  more  impressionable  than  she  was.  In  thinking  of  her, 
he  did  not  fancy  her  as  calm,  affectionate,  and  busied  with  others,  as 
•he  had  already  been  able  to  become,  but  plunged  in  tears  and 


146 


CONSUBtO, 


Toured  with  rain  regret  Bn"  he  thought  at  the  same  time  that  a re 
action  would  take  place,  and  that  he  should  find  her  cured  of  her  love, 
and  anxious  to  recommence  the  exercise  of  her  powers,  and  enjoy  the 
privileges  of  her  genius. 

The  pure  and  religious  feeling  conceived  by  Consuelo,  of  the  part 
she  was  to  play  in  the  family  of  Eudolstadt,  spread  from  this  day  a 
holy  serenity  over  her  words,  her  actions,  and  her  countenance. 
Those  who  had  formerly  seen  her  dazzling  with  love  and  joy  beneath 
the  sun  of  Venice,  could  not  easily  have  understood  how  she  could 
become  all  at  once  calm  and  gentle  in  the  midst  of  strangers,  in  the 
depths  of  gloomy  forests,  with  her  love  blighted,  both  as  regarded  the 
past  and  the  future.  But  goodness  finds  strength  where  pri^e  only 
meets  despair.  Consuelo  was  glorious  that  evening,  with  a beauty 
which  she  had  not  hitherto  displayed.  It  was  not  the  half-developed 
impulse  of  sleeping  nature  waiting  to  be  roused,  nor  the  expansion  of 
a power  which  seizes  the  spectators  with  surprise  or  delight;  neither 
was  it  the  hidden,  incomprehensible  beauty  of  the  scolare  zingarella  : 
no,  it  was  the  graceful,  penetrating  charm  of  a pure  and  self-possessed 
woman,  governed  by  her  own  sacred  impulses. 

Her  gentle  and  simple  hosts  needed  no  other  than  their  generous 
instincts  to  drink  in,  if  I may  use  the  expression,  the  mysterious  in- 
cense which  the  angelic  soul  of  Consuelo  exhaled  in  their  intellectual 
atmosphere.  They  experienced,  even  in  looking  at  her,  a moral  ele- 
vation which  they  might  have  found  it  difficult  to  explain,  but  the 
sweetness  of  which  filled  them  as  with  a new  life.  Albert  seemed  for 
the  first  time  to  enjoy  the  full  possession  of  his  faculties.  He  was 
obliging  and  good-natured  with  every  one.  He  was  suitably  so  with 
Consuelo,  and  spoke  to  her  at  different  times  in  such  terms  as  showed 
that  he  had  not  relinquished,  as  might  be  supposed,  the  elevated  in- 
tellect and  clear  judgment  with  which  nature  had  endowed  him.  The 
baron  did  not  once  fall  asleep,  the  canoness  ce  \sed  to  sigh,  and  Count 
Christian,  who  used  to  sink  at  night  into  his  aim-chair,  bent  down 
under  the  weight  of  old  age  and  vexation,  remained  erect  with  hi* 
back  to  the  chimney,  in  the  centre  of  his  family,  and  sharing  in  the 
easy  and  pleasant  conversation,  which  was  prolonged  till  nine  in  the 
evening. 

“ God  has  at  length  heard  our  prayers,”  said  the  chaplain  to  Count 
Christian  and  the  canoness,  who  remained  in  the  saloon  after  the  de- 
parture of  the  baron  and  the  young  people.  “ Count  Albert  has  this 
day  entered  his  thirtieth  year,  and  this  solemn  day,  so  dreaded  by 
him  and  ourselves,  has  passed  over  calmly  and  with  unspeakable  hap- 
piness.” 

“ Yes*  let  us  return  thanks  unto  God,”  said  the  old  count  “ It  may 
prove  but  a blessed  dream,  sent  for  a moment  to  comfort  us,  but  I 
could  not  help  thinking  all  this  day,  and  this  evening  in  particular, 
that  my  son  was  perfectly  cured.” 

44  Brother,”  replied  the  canoness,  44  and  you,  worthy  chaplain,  I en- 
treat pardon,  but  you  have  always  believed  Albert  to  be  tormented 
by  the  enemy  of  human  kind.  For  myself,  I thought  him  at  issue 
with  opposing  powers  which  disputed  the  possession  of  his  poor  soul, 
for  often,  when  he  repeated  words  of  the  bad  angel,  Heaven  spoke 
Grom  his  mouth  the  next  moment.  Ho  you  recollect  what  ne  said 
yesterday  evening  during  the  storm,  and  his  word3  on  leaving  us? — 
4 The  peace  of  God  has  come  down  on  this  hous).’  Albert  experi- 
enced the  miracle  in  himself,  and  I be!  eve  in  his  recovery  as  In  tbft 
iBviae  promise* 


eoNBUKLO, 


147 


chaplain  was  too  timid  to  admit  all  at  once  so  bold  a proposi- 
tion. He  extricated  himself  from  his  embarrassment  by  saying — ‘‘Let 
ns  ascribe  it  to  eternal  goodness ; ” “ God  reads  hidden  things ; ” “ The 
soul  should  lose  itself  in  God ; ” and  other  sentences,  more  consola- 
tory than  novel. 

Count  Christian  was  divided  between  the  desire  of  conforming  to 
thesomewhat  exaggerated  asceticism  of  his  good  sister,  and  the  re- 
spect imposed  by  the  prudent  and  unquestioning  orthodoxy  of  his 
confessor. 

He  endeavored  to  turn  the  conversation  by  speaking  of  the  charm- 
ing demeanor  of  Porporina.  The  canoness,  who  loved  her  already, 
praised  her  yet  more;  and  the  chaplain  sanctioned  the  preference 
which  they  experienced  for  her.  It  never  entered  their  heads  to  at- 
tribute the  miracle  which  had  taken  place  among  them,  to  Consuelo. 
They  accepted  the  benefit  without  considering  its  source.  It  was 
what  Consuelo  would  have  asked  of  God,  could  she  have  been  con- 
sulted. 

Amelia  was  a closer  observer.  It  soon  became  evident  to  her  that 
her  cousin  could  conceal  the  disorder  of  his  thoughts  from  persons 
whom  he  feared,  as  well  as  from  those  whom  he  wished  to  please. 
Before  relations  and  friends  of  the  family  whom  he  either  disliked  or 
esteemed,  he  never  betrayed  by  any  outward  demonstration  the  eccen- 
tricity of  his  character.  When  Consuelo  expressed  her  surprise  at 
what  had  been  related  the  preceding  evening,  Amelia,  tormented  by  a 
secret  uneasiness,  tried  to  make  her  afraid  of  Count  Albert  by  reci 
tals  which  had  already  terrified  herself.  “ Ah,  my  poor  friend,”  said 
she,  u distrust  this  deceitful  calm ; it  is  a pause  which  always  inter- 
venes between  a recent  and  an  approaching  crisis.  You  see  him  to- 
day as  I first  saw  him,  when  I arrived  here  in  the  beginning  of  last 
year.  Alas!  if  you  were  destined  to  become  the  wife  of  such  a vis- 
ionary, and  if,  to  combat  your  reluctance  they  had  determined  to  keep 
you  prisoner  for  an  indefinite  period  in  this  frightful  castle,  with  sur- 

E rises,  terrors,  and  agitations  for  your  daily  fare— nothing  to  be  seen 
ut  tears,  exorcisms,  and  extravagances — expecting  a cure  which  will 
never  happen — you  would  be  quite  disenchanted  with  the  fine  man- 
ners of  Albert,  and  the  honied  words  of  the  family.” 

“ It  is  not  credible,”  said  Consuelo,  “ that  they  would  unite  you 
against  your  will  to  a man  whom  you  do  not  love.  You  appear  to  be 
the  idol  of  your  relatives.” 

“They  will  not  force  me;  they  know  that  would  be  impossible. 
But  they  forget  that  Albert  is  not  the  only  husband  who  would  suit 
me,  and  God  knows  when  they  will  give  up  the  foolish  hope  that  the 
affection  with  which  I at  first  regarded  him  will  return.  And  then 
my  poor  father,  who  has  here  wherewith  to  satisfy  his  passion  for  the 
chase,  finds  himself  so  well  off  in  this  horrible  castle,  that  he  will 
always  discover  some  pretext  for  retarding  our  departure.  Ah ! if 
you  only  knew  some  secret,  my  dear  Nina,  to  make  all  the  game  in 
the  oountry  perish  in  one  night,  you  would  render  me  an  inestimable 
service.” 

u I can  do  nothing,  unfortunately,  but  try  to  amuse  you  by  giving 
you  lessons  in  music,  and  chatting  with  you  in  the  evening  when 
you  are  not  inclined  to  sleep.  I shall  do  ray  utmost  to  soothe  and  to 
compose  you.” 

“You  remind  me,”  said  Amelia,  “ that  I have  not  related  the  re- 
mainder of  the  story.  I shall  begin  at  once,  that  I may  not  keep  yos 

too  late. 


148 


COKSUKLOt 


“ Some  days  after  his  mysterious  absence,  which  he  still  belief 
had  only  lasted  seven  hours,  Albert  remarked  the  absence  of  the  abb* 
and  asked  where  lie  had  gone. 

“‘His  presence  was  no  longer  necessary,’  they  replied;  ‘he  re- 
turned to  his  own  pursuits.  Did  you.  not  observe  his  absence?  ’ 

“ ‘ I perceived,’  replied  Albert,  ‘ that  something  is  taken  from  the 
sum  of  my  suffering,  but  I did  not  know  what  it  was.’ 

“ ‘ You  suffer  much  then,  Albert,’  asked  the  canoness. 

“ ‘ Much ; ’ lie  replied,  in  the  tone  of  a man  who  is  asked  what  sort 
of  night  he  has  passed. 

“ ‘ And  the  abbe  was  obnoxious  to  you  ? ’ said  Count  Christian. 

“ ‘ Very,’  he  replied,  in  the  same  tone. 

“‘And  why,  my  son,  did  you  not  say  so  sooner?  Why  have  you 
borne  for  so  long  a time  the  presence  of  a man  whom  you  so  much 
disliked,  without  informing  me  of  it?  Do  you  doubt,  my  dear  child, 
that  I should  have  quickly  terminated  your  sufferings?  ’ 

“ ‘ It  was  but  a feeble  addition  to  my  grief,’  said  Albert,  with  fright- 
ful tranquillity ; ‘ and  your  kindness  which  I never  distrusted,  my  dear 
father,  would  have  but  sightly  relieved  it,  by  giving  me  another  super- 
intendent.’ 

“ ‘ Say  another  travelling  companion,  ray  son ; you  employ  an  ex- 
pression injurious  to  my  tenderness.’ 

“ ‘ Your  tenderness  was  the  cause  of  your  anxiety,  my  father.  You 
could  not  be  aware  of  the  evil  you  inflicted  on  me  in  sending  me  from 
this  house,  where  it  was  designed  by  Providence  I should  remain  till 
its  plans  for  me  should  be  accomplished.  You  thought  to  labor  for 
my  cure  and  repose ; but  I knew  better  what  was  good  for  us  both — I 
knew  that  I should  obey  you — and  this  duty  I have  fulfilled.’ 

“ ‘ I know  your  virtue  and  your  affection,  Albert ; but  can  you  not 
explain  yourself  more  clearly  ? ’ 

“ ‘ That  is  very  easy,’  replied  Albert  j and  the  time  is  come  that  I 
should  do  so.’ 

“Albert  spoke  so  calmly  that  we  thought  the  fortunate  moment 
had  arrived  when  his  soul  should  cease  to  be  a melancholy  enigma. 
We  pressed  around  him,  and  encouraged  him  by  our  looks  and  cares- 
ses to  open  his  heart  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  He  appeared  at 
length  inclined  to  do  so,  and  spoke  as  follows : — 

“ ‘ You  have  always  looked  upon  me,’  said  he,  ‘ and  still  continue 
to  look  upon  me,  as  in  ill-health  and  a madman.  Did. I not  feel  for 
you  all  infinite  respect  and  affection,  I should  perhaps  have  widened 
the  abyss  which  separates  us,  and  I should  have  shown  you  chat  you 
are  in  a world  of  errors  and  prejudices,  whilst  Heaven  has  given  me 
access  to  a sphere  of  light  and  truth.  But  you  could  not  understand 
me  without  giving  up  what  constitutes  your  tranquillity,  your  secur- 
ity, and  your  creed.  When  borne  away  by  my  enthusiasm,  impru- 
dent words  escaped  me,  I soon  found  I had  done  you  harm  in  wish- 
ing to  root  up  your  chimeras  and  display  before  your  enfeebled  eyes 
the  burning  flame  which  I bore  about  with  me.  All  the  details  and 
the  habits  of  your  life,  all  the  fibres  of  your  heart,  all  the  springs  of 
your  intellect,  are  so  bound  up  together,  so  trammelled  with  falsehood 
and  darkness,  that  I should  but  seem  to  inflict  death  instead  of  life. 
There  is  a voice,  however,  which  cries  to  me  in  watching  and  in  sleep, 
In  calm  and  in  storm,  to  enlighten  and  convert  you.  But  I am  too 
loving  and  too  weak  a mart  to  undertake  it.  When  I see  your  eye* 
m of  tears  your  bosoms  heave,  your  foreheads  bent  down— when  I 


C0N8UKL0, 


149 


feel  that  I bring  only  sorrow  and  terror — I fly,  I hide  myself,  to  resist 
the  cry  of  conscience  and  the  commands  of  destiny.  Behold  the 
cause  of  my  illness ! Behold  my  torment,  my  cross,  my  suffering 
Do  you  understand  me  now  ? * 

“ My  uncle,  my  aunt,  and  the  chaplain,  understood  this  much—  that 

Albert  had  ideas  of  morality  and  religion  totally  different  from  their 
own;  but,  timid  as  devout,  they  feared  to  go  too  far,  and  dared  not 
encourage  his  frankness.  As  to  myself,  I was  only  imperfectly  ac- 
quainted with  the  peculiarities  of  his  childhood  and  youth,  and  I did 

not  at  all  understand  it.  Besides,  I was  at  this  time,  like  yourself, 
Nina,  and  knew  very  little  of  this  Hussitism  and  Lutheranism  which 
I have  since  heard  so  much  of,  whilst  the  controversies  between  Al- 
bert and  the  chaplain  overwhelmed  me  with  weariness.  I expected  a 
more  ample  explanation,  but  it  did  not  ensue.  ‘ I see/  said  Albert, 
struck  with  the  silence  around  him,  ‘ that  you  do  not  wish  to  under- 
stand me,  for  fear  of  understanding  too  much.  Be  it  so,  then.  Your 
blindness  has  borne  bitter  fruits.  Ever  unhappy,  ever  alone,  a 
stranger  among  those  I love,  I have  neither  refuge  nor  stay  but  in  the 
consolation  which  has  been  promised  me.’ 

“ ‘ What  is  this  consolation,  my  son  ? ’ said  Count  Christian,  deep- 
ly afflicted.  * Could  it  not  come  from  us  ? Shall  we  never  understand 
each  other? 9 

“‘  Never,  my  father;  let  us  love  each  other,  since  that  alone  is  al- 
lowed. Heaven  is  my  witness,  that  our  vast  and  irreparable  misun- 
derstanding has  never  diminished  the  love  I bear  you.’ 

“‘And  is  not  that  enough  ?9  said  the  canon  ess,  taking  one  hand, 
while  her  brother  pressed  Albert’s  other  hand  in  his  own.  ‘ Can  you 
not  forget  your  wild  ideas,  your  strange  belief,  and  live  fondly  in  the 
midst  of  us  ? 9 

“ ‘ I do  not  live  on  affection/  replied  Albert.  ‘ It  is  a blessing  which 
produces  good  or  evil,  according  as  our  faith  is  a common  one  or  other- 
wise. Our  hearts  are  in  union,  dear  Aunt  Wenceslawa,  but  our  intel- 
lects are  at  war ; and  this  is  a great  misfortune  for  us  all.  I know  it 
will  not  end  for  centuries.  Therefore  I await  the  happiness  that  has 
been  promised  me,  and  which  gives  me  power  to  hope  on.9 

u ‘ What  is  that  happiness,  Albert  ? can  you  not  explain  ? 9 

44  ‘ No,  for  I am  myself  ignorant  of  it ; but  it  will  come.  My  mother 
has  never  missed  a week  without  announcing  it  to  me  in  my  dreams, 
and  the  voices  of  the  forest  whisper  it  back  to  me,  whensoever  I in- 
terrogate them.  An  angel  often  flutters  around  me,  showing  me  its 
pale  but  lustrous  countenance  above  the  Stone  of  Horror,  whither,  at 
the  time  when  my  contemporaries  called  me  Ziska,  I was  transported 
by  the  indignation  of  the  Lord,  and  became  for  the  first  time  the 
minister  of  his  vengeance  — that  stone,  whereon,  when  I was  called 
Wratislaw,  I saw  the  mutilated  and  disfigured  head  of  my  father 
Withold  roll  beneath  the  sabre’s  edge  — horrible  expiation,  which 
taught  me  the  meaning  of  sorrow  and  of  pity— -day  of  fatal  remuner- 
ation, when  the  Lutheran  blood  washed  the  stain  of  Catholic  blood, 
and  made  me  a man  of  tenderness  and  mercy,  instead  of  the  man  of 
fanaticism  and  horror  I had  been  for  a hundred  years  before.’ 

Merciful  Prr  vidence!  * cried  my  aunt.  ‘ His  madness  is  coming 
on  him  again.* 

“‘Do  not  vex  him,  sister/  said  CoTnt  Christian,  making  a great 
effort  over  himself;  ‘suffer  him  to  explain  himself.  Speak,  my  ton, 
what  hat  the  angel  told  yea  about  the  Rock  of  Horror?  ’ 


160 


COtfSUElO, 


" 1 He  has  told  me  that  my  consolation  wa»  lear  at  hand/  Albert 
answered  him,  with  a face  radiant  with  enthusiasm,  ‘and  that  it 
would  descend  upon  my  heart  so  soon  as  my  twenty-ninth  year 
should  be  fulfilled/ 

“My  uncle  let  his  head  droop  wearily  on  his  breast,  for  Albert 
seemed  to  him  to  allude  to  his  own  death  by  mentioning  the  age  at 
which  his  mother  had  died ; and  it  seems  that  she  had  often  predicted, 
during  her  malady,  that  neither  herself  nor  her  son  should  ever  at- 
tain the  age  of  thirty ; for  it  would  seem  that  my  aunt  Wanda  was 
somewhat  given  to  supernatural  sights  also ; but  I knew  nothing  pre- 
cise on  the  subject.  It  is  too  painful  a recollection  for  my  uncle,  and 
no  one  dares  to  awaken  it  in  his  bosom. 

“ The  chaplain  then  proceeded  to  make  an  endeavor  at  removing 
the  sad  thoughts  created  by  this  mournful  prediction,  by  inducing  Al- 
bert to  explain  himself  in  regard  to  the  abbe,  which  was  the  point 
from  which  the  conversation  had  branched  off. 

“ Albert,  in  his  turn,  made  an  effort  to  reply  to  him.  * I talk  to  you, 
said  he,  ‘of  things  everlasting  and  divine;  you  recal  me  to  swift 
fleeting  instants,  puerile  cares,  which  I at  once  forget/ 

“ * Speak,  my  son,  nevertheless ; let  us  try  at  all  events  this  day  to 
comprehend  you/ 

“ ‘ You  never  have  understood,  never  will  understand  me,  father,  in 
what  you  call  this  life,’  said  Albert.  ‘ But  if  you  would  know  why  I 
travelled,  why  I endured  that  faithless  and  careless  guardian  whom 
you  tied  to  my  steps  like  a greedy  and  lazy  dog  to  a blind  man’s  arm, 
I will  tell  you,  and  briefly.  1 had  seen  you  suffer  cruelly.  It  was  nec- 
essary to  withdraw  from  your  eyes  the  sight  of  a son  rebellious  to 
your  lessons,  deaf  to  your  reproaches.  I knew  that  I should  never  re- 
cover of  what  you  termed  my  insanity,  but  I desired  to  give  you  rest 
and  hope,  and  withdrew  myself  voluntarily.  You  asked  my  promise 
that  I would  not  without  your  consent  rid  myself  of  the  guide  you  had 
given  me,  and  that  I would  let  him  conduct  me  through  the  world.  I 
was  resolved  to  keep  my  promise;  I wished  also  that  he  should  keep 
up  your  hopes  and  your  tranquillity.  I was  gentle  and  enduring,  but 
I closed  both  heart  and  ears  against  him , and  he  had  at  least  the 
sense  never  to  attempt  the  opening  them.  He  led  me  to  walk, 
dressed  me,  fed  me,  as  if  I were  a child.  I gave  up  living  as  I wished 
to  live ; I grew  accustomed  to  see  misery,  injustice,  and  madness  reign 
over  the  earth;  I looked  on  men  and  their  institutions,  and  indigna- 
tion made  way  for  pity  in  my  heart,  as  I perceived  that  the  misery  of 
the  oppressed  is  inferior  to  that  of  the  oppressors.  In  my  childhood 
I had  no  love  but  for  victims ; now  I learned  to  compassionate  their 
executioners,  unhappy  penitents,  who  undergo  in  this  generation  the 
penalty  of  crimes  committed  by  them  during  their  previous  existences, 
and  whom  God  has  condemned  to  be  wucked,  a punishment  a thous- 
and times  severer  than  it  is  to  be  their  innocent  prey.  It  is  therefore 
that  I gave  no  charities  any  longer,  except  to  rid  myself  personally  of 
the  weight  of  wealth,  without  tormenting  you  by  my  preachings, 
knowing  now  that  the  time  to  be  happy  has  not  arrived,  because,  to 
bpeak  the  language  of  men,  the  time  to  be  good  is  yet  afar  off/ 

“ ‘ And  now  that  you  are  free  from  this  supervisor,  as  you  call  him 
—now  that  you  can  live  in  tranquillity,  beyond  the  sight  of  miseries 
which  you  extinguish,  one  by  one,  as  they  occur  around  you — now 
that  no  one  will  counteract  your  generous  enthusiasm,  will  you  not 
make  an  effort  with  yourself  to  repel  and  conquer  your  mental  agita- 
tion?’ 


C0N8CEL0.  161 

* Ask  me  no  further,  my  beloved  parents/  replied  Albert,  1 for  this 
day  I will  speak  no  word  more.’ 

“ And  he  kept  his  promise ; and  yet  more,  for  he  never  unclosed  hii 
lipe  for  an  entire  week.” 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

u A few  words  wiL  conclude  Albert’s  history,  my  dear  Porporina. 
for  this  reason,  that  unless  I were  to  repeat  what  I have  already  told 
you,  I have  but  little  more  to  mention.  My  cousin’s  whole  conduct 
during  the  year  and  a half  which  I have  spent  here,  has  been  one 
continued  repetition  of  the  whims  and  fantasies  of  which  you  are 
now  aware.  The  only  exception  is,  that  his  pretended  recollection  ot 
bye-gone  ages  began  to  assume  a really  alarming  character  of  reality, 
when  Albert  suddenly  manifested  a particular  and  marvellous  faculty, 
of  which  you  have,  perhaps,  heard  tell,  but  which  I certainly  had 
never  believed  till  he  gave  indubitable  proofs  of  it.  This  faculty  is 
called,  as  I learn,  second  sight  in  other  countries,  and  those  who  pos- 
sess it  are  often  the  objects  of  a sort  of  religious  veneration  among 
superstitious  persons.  As  to  me,  I know  not  what  to  think  of  it; 
but  I find  in  it  another  reason  for  never  becoming  the  wife  of  a man 
who  could  see  all  my  actions  at  the  distance  of  a hundred  leagues, 
and  who  could  read  my  very  thoughts.  Such  a woman  should  at  the 
very  least  be  a saint;  and  how  should  one  be  such  toward  a man  who 
seems  to  be  devoted  to  the  devil  ? ” 

“ You  have  the  faculty,”  said  Consuelo,  “ of  jesting  at  everything, 
and  I cannot  but  admire  the  merriment  with  which  you  talk  of  things 
that  make  the  very  hair  stand  up  on  my  head.  In  what  does  this 
gift  of  second  sight  consist  ? ” 

“ Albert  sees  and  hears  that  which  no  one  but  he  can  see  or  hear. 
When  a person  whom  he  likes  is  about  to  arrive  here,  he  announces 
his  coming,  and  goes  forth  to  meet  him  an  hour  before  the  time.  In 
like  manner  he  retires,  and  goes  and  shuts  himself  up  in  his  own 
room,  when  he  feels  the  approach  of  any  one  who  is  disagreeable  to 
him. 

“ One  day  when  he  was  walking  with  my  father  along  the  mountain 
path,  he  stopped  short  on  a sudden,  and  made  a great  circuit  over 
stdnes  and  through  briars,  to  avoid  a certain  spot  which  did  not  seem, 
however,  to  have  any  peculiarity.  They  returned  the  same  way,  and, 
at  the  expiration  of  a few  minutes,  Albert  performed  the  same  manoeu- 
vre. My  father,  pretending  to  have  lost  something,  endeavored  to 
bring  him  to  the  foot  of  a fir  tree  which  appeared  to  be  the  object  of 
his  repugnance.  Not  only,  however,  did  Albert  avoid  approaching  it, 
but  took  pains  not  so  much  as  to  tread  upon  the  shadow  which  the 
tree  projected  across  the  road ; and  while  my  father  crossed  and  re- 
el ossed  the  spot,  he  showed  a disturbance  and  agony  of  mind  that 
were  really  remarkable.  At  length,  when  my  father  stopped  close  to 
the  foot  of  the  tree,  Albert  uttered  an  outcry,  and  called  him  back 
hastily.  It  was  a long  time,  however,  before  he  could  be  induced  to 
explain  this  whim,  and  it  was  only  when  completely  overcome  by  the 
prayers  of  the  whole  family,  that  he  declared  this  tree  to  be  the  mark 


152 


CONBUELO. 


of  ft  burial  pla  se,  and  asserted  that  a gveat  crime  had  been  committed 
there. 

u The  chaplain  thought  that  if  Albert  was  cognizant  of  any  murder 
committed  in  that  place,  it  was  his  duty  to  be  informed  of  it,  in  order 
to  give  Christian  burial  to  those  abandoned  relics  of  humanity. 

“‘Beware  what  you  shall  do,’  said  Albert,  with  the  melancholy 
and  sarcastic  expression  which  he  sometimes  assumes.  ‘ The  man, 
woman  and  child  whom  you  will  find  there,  were  Hussites,  and  it  is 
the  drunkard,  Wenceslawa,  who  caused  them  to  be  slaughtered  by  his 
soldiers,  one  night  when  he  was  hiding  in  the  woods,  and  expected  to 
be  observed  or  betrayed  by  them.’  ” 

“ No  more  was  said  on  the  subject  to  my  cousin ; but  my  uncle, 
who  was  anxious  to  discover  whether  this  was  merely  fancy  on  his 
part,  or  a species  of  inspiration,  caused  the  place  to  be  explored  by 
night,  and  the  skeletons  of  a man,  a woman  and  a child  were  there 
discovered/  The  man  was  covered  by  one  of  those  enormous  wooden 
shields  worn  by  the  Hussites,  which  are  easy  to  be  recognised  by  the 
chalice  which  is  engraved  upon  them,  with  this  device  around  them 
in  Latin — “ O,  death*  how  bitter  is  the  memory  of  thee  to  the  unjust 
—how  quiet  and  calm  to  the  man,  all  whose  actions  are  ordered 
rightly,  and  with  a view  to  this  end.” 

“ These  bones  were  removed  and  re-interred  in  a different  part  of 
the  forest ; and  when  Albert  passed  several  times  close  to  the  foot  of 
the  fir  tree,  my  father  observed  that  he  had  not  the  least  repugnance 
to  walking  over  the  spot,  although  it  had  been  carefully  filled  up  as 
before  with  sand  and  stones,  so  that  no  traces  were  left  of  what  had 
occurred.  He  did  not  even  remember  the  emotion  which  he  had  tea- 
tified,  and  had  some  trouble  in  recalling  it  to  mind  when  mentioned 
to  him. 

“‘You  must  be  mistaken,  father/  he  said,  ‘ and  it  must  have  been 
in  some  other  place  that  I was  warned.  I am  certain  that  there  is 
nothing  here.  For  I have  neither  chill  nor  pain,  nor  trembling  of 
my  body/ 

“ My  aunt  is  much  inclined  to  ascribe  this  poetic  power  to  the  es- 
pecial favor  of  Providence.  But  Albert  is  so  gloomy,  so  unhappy,  and 
suffers  so  much  from  it,  that  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  to  what  end 
Providence  should  have  endowed  him  with  a gift  so  fatal. 

“ If  I believed  in  the  existence  of  the  devil,  the  chaplain’s  sugges- 
tion would  leave  it  on  far  more  reasonable  grounds,  who  lays  all  Al- 
bert’s hallucinations  to  his  charge.  My  uncle  Christian,  who  is  ft 
man  of  more  sense  and  firmness  in  his  religious  views,  sees  for  all 
these  things  explanations  which  are  probable  enough  on  common- 
sense  considerations.  He  thinks  that,  notwithstanding  all  the  pain* 
the  Jesuits  took  for  so  many  years,  after  the  Thirty  Years’  War,  in 
forming  all  the  heretics  in  Bohemia,  and  especially  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Giant’s  Castle, — in  spite  of  the  close  investigation  made  in  every 
nook  after  the  death  of  my  aunt  Wanda,  there  must  have  remained 
in  some  corner,  of  which  no  one  was  aware,  some  historical  doco 
ments  which  have  been  found  by  Albert— that  the  reading  of  thos 
unlucky  papers  must  have  taken  strange  effect  on  his  diseased  imag- 
ination— and  that  he  attributes,  unconsciously  of  the  self-deceit,  to 
those  wonderful  memories  of  a p dor  existence  on  earth,  the  impres- 
sion which  he  has  received  from  documents  now  wholly  unknown, 

• A French  rersion  of  Elccleslasticus  xli,  1.  A 

tfc 

f 


168 


C O jN  8 U E L O. 

Which  he,  nsvertheless,  repeats  with  the  minute  details  and  dose  con- 
nection of  historic  chronicles.  By  these  means  are  easily  accounted 
for  all  the  strange  tales  he  tells  us,  as  well  as  his  disappearance  for 
days  and  weeks  together  ; for  it  ife  right  to  tell  you  that  these  disap- 
pearances have  several  times  recurred,  and  that  it  is  impossible  to 
•uppose  that  he  spends  the  time  out  of  the  castle.  Whenever  he  has 
disappeared  it  has  proved  utterly  impossible  to  discover  him,  and  we  are 
certain  that  no  peasant  has  ever  given  him  either  food  or  shelter.  We 
know  also  that  he  has  fits  of  lethargy  which  keep  him  confined  to  his 
chamber  for  whole  days ; and  when  the  doors  are  forced,  or  any  dis- 
turbance is  made  about  him,  he  falls  into  convulsions  so  that  great 
care  is  now  taken  not  to  disturb  hiin.  Free  scope  is  now  given  to  his 
lethargic  seizures,  during  which  extraordinary  things  seem  to  pass 
through  his  mind ; but  no  sound,  no  outward  agitation,  betray  them, 
and  it  is  from  his  conversation  only  that  we  learn  their  character. 
When  he  recovers,  he  is  calmer  and  more  reasonable  for  a few  days, 
but  by  degrees  his  agitation  returns,  and  goes  on  increasing  until  the 
recurrence  of  his  seizure,  the  period  and  duration  of  which  he  ap- 
pears to  foresee ; for  when  they  are  long,  he  either  retires  to  soma 
distant  place,  or  takes  refuge 'in  his  hiding  place,  which  we  imagine 
must  be  some  vault  of  the  castle,  or  some  cavern  in  this  mountain, 
known  to  himself  alone.  Up  to  this  time,  it  has  been  impossible  to 
discover  him,  which  is  the  more  difficult  that  he  will  not  endure  to  be 
watched,  and  that  to  be  followed,  observed,  or  even  seriously  ques- 
tioned, renders  him  seriously  ill.  Thus  the  plan  has  been  adopted  of 
leaving  him  entirely  free,  and  we  have  now  accustomed  ourselves  to 
regard  these  disappearances,  which  were  at  first  so  fearfully  alarming, 
as  favorable  crises  in  his  malady ; when  they  come  about,  my  aunt  is 
miserable,  and  my  uncle  prays,  but  no  one  stirs ; and  as  for  me,  I 
confess  that  I have  become  very  much  hardened  on  this  account. 
Vexation  has  brought  in  its  train  weariness  and  disgust.  I should 
prefer  death  to  marriage  with  this  maniac.  I admit  his  noble  quali- 
ties; but,  although  you  may  think  that  I ought  to  pay  no  regard 
to  his  fantasies,  I confess  that  I am  irritated  by  them  as  the  torment 
of  my  life,  and  of  my  whole  family.” 

“ That  seems  to  me  a little  unjust,  my  dear  baroness,”  said  Consu- 
elo.  “ How  repugnant  soever  you  may  feel  to  becoming  the  wife  of 
Count  Albert,  I can  well  conceive ; but  how  you  should  lose  all  inter- 
est in  him,  is  beyond  my  comprehension.” 
u It  is  because  I cannot  avoid  believing  that  there  is  something  vol- 
untary in  this  man’s  madness.  It  is  certain  that  he  has  great  strength 
of  character ; and  on  a thousand  occasions,  he  has  much  command 
over  himself.  He  has  the  power  of  retarding,  when  he  chooses  it,  the 
Approach  of  these  attacks.  ' I have  seen  him  master  them  with  great 
power  when  persons  seemed  indisposed  to  treat  them  seriously.  On 
the  contrary,  when  he  sees  us  disposed  to  credulity  or  fear,  he  seems 
tc  desire,  by  his  extravagances,  to  produce  an  effect  upon  us,  and  he 
abuses  our  weakness  toward  him.  It  is  on  this  account  that  I feel 
bitterly  toward  him,  and  often  ask  Beelzebub,  his  patron,  to  come  and 
rid  us  of  him,  once  for  all.” 

“ These  are  very  cruel  jokes,”  said  Consuelo,  “ to  be  used  concern- 
ing a man  so  unhappy,  and  on  3 whose  affliction  seems  to  me  roman- 
tic and  poetical,  rather  than  n.arvellou3  or  repulsive.” 

*Take  it  as  you  please,  my  dear  Porporina,”  resumed  Amelia, 
Admire  hit  sorceries  as  much  as  you  please,  but  I do  as  our  chaplain 


164 


CONIUKLO' 


doee,  who  commends  his  soul  to  God,  and  seeks  not  to  comprehend 
I take  shelter  in  the  bosom  of  reason,  and  do  not  attempt  to  explain 
to  myself  that  which,  I doubt  not,  h is  a very  simple  explanation, 
though  it  is  utterly  unknown  to  ah  of  us  at  present.  The  only  thing 
that  is  certain  about  my  unfortunate  cousin  is,  that  his  reason  has 
completely  packed  its  baggage — that  his  imagination  has  unfolded 
within  his  brain  wings  so  wide,  that  the  case  is  bursting  with  their  ex- 
pansion. And,  since  I must  speak  out  clearly  and  say  the  word  which 
my  poor  uncle  Christian  was  compelled  to  utter  in  tears  at  the  feet  of 
the  Empress  Maria  Theresa,  who  will  not  be  satisfied  with  half  an- 
nrftfi,  or  half  affirmations,  in  three  words,  4 Albert  Rudolstadt  is  mad 
—deranged/  if  you  think  that  a more  genteel  expression.” 

Consuelo  replied  only  by  a deep  sigh.  Amelia  appeared  to  her  at 
that  moment  a hateful  and  iron-hearted  person.  She  strove  to  excuse 
her  in  her  own  eyes,  by  conjuring  up  to  herself  all  that  she  must 
have  suffered  during  eighteen  months  of  a life  so  sad,  yet  filled  with 
emotions  so  strange  and  varied.  Then  recollecting  her  own  misfor- 
tunes— “ Ah  1 ” she  said  to  herself,  “ why  cannot  I lav  jhe  blame  of 
Anzoleto’s  faults  to  madness.  Had  he  fallen  into  demium  in  the 
midst  of  the  intoxications  and  deceptions  of  his  debut,  I feel,  for  my 
own  part,  that  I should  have  loved  him  no  less;  and  I should  only 
ask  to  know  that  his  infidelity  and  ingratitude  arose  from  frenzy,  to 
adore  him  as  before,  and  to  fly  to  his  succor.” 

Some  days  elapsed  without  Albert’s  manner,  conversation,  or  de- 
meanor, giving  the  slightest  confirmation  to  his  cousin’s  assertions, 
relative  to  the  derangement  of  his  intellect.  But,  on  a day  when  the 
chaplain  chanced  unintentionally  to  cross  him,  he  began  talking  inco- 
herently, and  then,  as  if  he  became  himself  aware  of  it,  left  the 
drawing-room  abruptly,  and  went  away  to  shut  himself  up  in  the  se- 
clusion of  his  own  chamber.  All  expected  #hat  he  would  remain 
there  some  time;  but  within  an  hour  he  returned,  pale  and  disorder- 
ed, moved  himself  languidly  from  chair  to  chair,  and  kept  hovering 
around  Consuelo,  although  he  did  not  appear  to  take  any  more  notice 
of  her  than  usual.  At  length  he  retreated  to  the  embrasure  of  a 
window,  in  which  he  sat  down  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  and 
so  continued  wholly  motionless. 

It  was  now  about  the  time  at  which  Amelia  was  used  to  take  her 
music  lesson,  and  she  now  desired  to  do  so,  as  she  whispered  to  Con- 
suelo, If  it  were  only  for  the  purpose  of  driving  away  that  ill-omened 
face,  which  banished  all  her  gaiety,  and  seemed,  as  she  said  in  her 
fancy,  to  fill  the  very  room  with  odors  of  the  grave.  “ I think,”  said 
Consuelo,  in  answer  to  her,  “ that  we  shall  do  better  to  go  up  to  your 
room,  where  we  can  make  your  spinet  serve  us  for  accompaniment. 
If  it  be  true  that  music  is  disagreeable  to  Count  Albert,  to  what  end 
increase  his  disturbance,  and  by  that  means  the  sufferings  of  his 
parents?”  And  to  this  consideration  Amelia  having  yielded,  they 
went  up  together  to  her  chamber,  the  door  of  which  they  left  ajar, 
because  there  was  some  smoke  in  the  room.  Amelia  wanted  to  have 
her  own  way,  as  usual,  and  to  sing  loud,  showy  cavatinas;  but  this 
time  Consuelo  showed  that  she  was  in  earnest,  and  made  her  try 
some  very  simple  movements  and  some  serious  passages  from  Pales- 
tina’s  sacred  songs.  The  young  baroness  began  to  yawn,  grew  fretful, 
and  declared  that  the  music  was  barbarous,  and  would  put  her  to 
sleep. 

" That  is  because  you  do  not  understand  it,”  replied  Cons 


tiOHStJ&LO. 


165 


“ Suffer  me  to  sing  yon  a few  airs,  to  show  you  how  admirably  It  la 
adapted  for  the  voice,  in  addition  to  the  grandeur  and  sublimity  of  ita 
thoughts  and  suggestions.” 

She  seated  herself  at  the  spinet,  and  began  to  sing.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  awakened  the  echoes  of  the  old  chateau,  and  she 
found  the  bare  and  lofty  walls  so  admirably  adapted  for  sound,  that 
she  gave  herself  up  entirely  to  the  pleasure  which  she  experienced. 
Her  voice,  long  mute,  since  the  last  evening  when  she  sang  at  San 
Samuel— that  evening  when  she  fainted,  broken  down  by  fatigue  and 
•orrow — instead  of  being  impaired  by  so  much  suffering  and  agitation, 
was  more  beautiful,  more  marvelous,  more  thrilling  than  ever. 
Amelia  was  at  the  same  time  transported  and  affrighted.  She  was 
at  length  beginning  to  understand  that  she  did  not  know  anything, 
and  that  perhaps  she  could  never  learn  anything,  when  the  pale  and 
pensive  figure  of  Albert  suddenly  appeared  in  the  middle  of  the 
apartment,  in  front  of  the  two  young  girls,  and  remained  motionless 
and  apparently  deeply  moved  until  the  end  of  the  piece.  It  was  only 
then  that  Consuelo  perceived  him,  and  was  somewhat  frightened. 
But  Albert,  falling  on  his  knees,  and  raising  towards  her  his  large 
dark  eyes,  swimming  in  tears,  exclaimed  in  Spanish,  without  the  least 
German  accent,  “ O Consuelo  1 Consuelo  I I have  at  last  found 
thee!” 

“Consuelo?”  cried  the  astonished  girl,  expressing  herself  in  the 
same  language,  “ Why,  sefior,  do  you  call  me  by  that  name  ? ” 

“ I call  you  Consolation,”  replied  Albert,  still  speaking  in  Spanish, 
“ because  a consolation  has  been  promised  to  my  desolate  life,  and  be- 
cause you  are  that  consolation  which  God  at  last  grants  to  my  solitary 
and  gloomy  existence.” 

u I did  not  think,”  said  Amelia,  with  suppressed  rage,  “ that  music 
could  have  produced  so  prodigious  an  effect  on  my  dear  cousin. 
Nina’s  voice  is  formed  to  accomplish  wonders,  I confess ; but  I may 
remark  to  both  of  you,  that  it  would  be  more  polite  towards  me,  and 
more  according  to  general  etiquette,  to  use  a language  which  I can 
understand.” 

Albert  appeared  not  to  have  heard  a word  of  what  his  betrothed 
had  said.  He  continued  kneeling,  and  looking  at  Consuelo,  with  eye« 
beaming  with  delight  and  wonder,  and  reiterated  in  a soft,  low  tone 
the  words,  “ Consuelo ! Consuelo ! ” 

“ What  is  this  name  that  he  is  calling  you?”  asked  Amelia  of  he* 
companion,  somewhat  angrily. 

“ He  is  asking  me,”  replied  Consuelo,  now  a good  deal  embarrassed, 
for  a Spanish  air  with  which  I am  unacquainted ; and  I think,  more- 
over, that  we  had  better  stop  where  we  are,  for  the  music  appears  to 
affect  him  to-day  far  too  strongly.”  And  with  these  words  she  arose 
to  leave  the  room. 

“ Consuelo,”  repeated  Albert,  in  the  Spanish  tongue,  “ if  you  de- 
part from  me,  my  life  is  over,  and  I will  never  return  to  the  earth  for 
evermore.”  And  as  he  spoke  thus  he  fell  at  her  feet  and  fainted, 
while  the  two  frightened  g'ji  i called  servants  to  his  aid,  who  carried 
him  away  to  hit  own  room. 


16ft 


OOfflUKLOi 


CHAFFER  XXXIL 

Count  Albert  was  gently  deposited  on  his  own  bed,  while  two  of 
the  servants  who  had  brought  him  thither,  went  in  search  of  the 
chaplain,  who  was  in  some  sort  the  family  physician,  and  for  Count 
Christian,  who  had  left  directions  that  he  should  be  informed  of  the 
slightest  affection  of  his  son,  while  the  young  ladies  set  off  to  find  the 
canoness.  Before,  however,  any  one  of  these  several  persons  had  re* 
turned  to  his  bed,  though  each  and  all  made  the  best  speed,  Albert 
had  disappeared.  His  door  was  discovered  open^his  bed  scarcely  dis- 
arranged by  the  momentary  repose  which  he  had  taken  upon  it,  and 
his  chamber  in  its  accustomed  order.  He  was  sought  for  everywhere, 
as  was  always  the  case  when  events  of  this  nature  occurred.  He  was 
nowhere  to  be  found;  whereupon  the  family  at  once  relapsed  into 
one  of  those  states  of  gloomy  resignation  which  had  been  described 
to  Consuelo  by  Amelia,  and  all  appeared  to  be  awaiting,  in  that  dumb 
consternation,  the  expression  of  which  they  no  longer  sought  to  con- 
ceal, the  return,  rather  to  be  hoped  for  than  expected,  of  the  young 
and  extraordinary  baron. 

Although  Consuelo  would  have  desired  to  make  no  allusion  to  his 
parents  of  the  singular  scene  which  had  been  transacted  in  the  cham- 
ber of  the  young  baroness,  the  latter  failed  not  to  recount  to  them,  in 
the  warmest  and  most  vived  colors,  the  instantaneous  and  potent  ef- 
fect which  Porporina’s  song  had  produced  on  her  cousin.  “ It  is  then 
very  certain  that  music  has  a bad  effect  on  him,”  observed  the  chap- 
lain. 

“ If  that  be  the  case,”  Consuelo  answered  him,  “ I will  take  good 
heed  that  he  shall  not  hear  me : and  when  I shall  be  at  w6rk  with  our 
young  baroness,  we  shall  take  heed  to  shut  ourselves  up  so  closely  that 
no  sound  may  by  chahce  reach  the  ears  of  Count  Albert.” 

“ It  will  be  very  irksome  to  you,  my  dear  young  lady,”  said  the  can* 
oness.  “Ah!  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  render  your  sojourn  here 
agreeable  to  you.” 

“ I am  willing  to  participate  both  in  your  sorrows  and  your  pleas- 
ures; and  I seek  no  other  satisfaction  than  that  of  being  permitted  to 
share  in  both,  through  your  confidence  and  friendship.” 

“You  are  a noble  girl,”  the  canoness  made  answer,  offering  her 
long  and  emaciated  hand  to  her  pressure ; “ but  listen  to  me,  I am  of 
opinion  that  music  is  not  in  reality  injurious  to  my  dear  Albert.  Ac- 
cording to  what  I have  gathered  from  Amelia  of  this  morning’s  scene, 
I judge  contrariwise — that  he  was  too  powerfully  delighted.  It  may 
even  be  that  his  illness  was  occasioned  by  the  too  sudden  suspension 
of  your  admirable  melodies.  What  said  he  to  you  in  Spanish  ? That 
is  a tongue  which  he  speaks  thoroughly,  as  I am  told,  with  many 
others  which  he  acquired  d .ring  his  travels  with  prodigious  quickness. 
If  asked  how  he  retains  in  memory  so  many  languages,  he  replies, 
that  he  knew  them  before  he  was  born,  and  remembers  them — this 
one,  because  he  spoke  it  twelve  hundred  years  ago— that,  when  he 
was  at  tha  crusades,  or  I know  not  where.  Alas!  you  will  hear 
•trange  narratives  of  hi#  anterior  existences,  as  he  calls  them.  But 
translate  for  me  into  eur  Grerman  language,  which  you  already  speak 
ao  well,  the  meaning  yf  what  he  said  to  you  in  your  language,  which 
moi  of  ui  knows.” 


COVSUBLO. 


157 

Consuelo  was  for  a moment  embarrassed  to  a point  which  sh« 
jould  not  explain,  even  to  herself.  She  determined,  however,  to  tell 
learly  the  whole  truth,  explaining  that  Count  Albert  had  begged  her 
to  remain  with  him,  declaring  that  she  afforded  him  exceeding  consol- 
ation. 

“ Consolation  1 ” said  Amelia,  who  was  not  lacking  in  quickness 
* Did  he  use  that  word  ? You  know,  aunt,  the  peculiar  signification 
which  he  attaches  to  that  word.” 

“ Truly  it  is  a word  which  he  uses  often,”  said  Wenceslawa,  u and 
to  which  he  appears  to  attach  a prophetic  meaning;  but  I do  not  see 
any  reason  for  applying  any  other  than  its  ordinary  meaning  to  the 
use  of  it,  on  that  occasion.” 

u But  what  means  the  word  which  he  repeated  to  you  so  often,  dear 
Porporina,”  persisted  Amelia.  “ I thought  he  used  one  word  very 
often,  though  in  my  agitation  I lost  its  sound.” 

“ I did  not  understand  it  myself,”  said  Consuelo,  not  speaking 
falsely  without  an  effort. 

“ My  dear  Nina,”  Aipelia  whispered  to  her,  " you  are  as  quick  as 
you  are  prudent.  I am  not  myself  quite  an  idiot,  and  I perfectly  com- 
prehend that  you  are  the  mystical  consolation  promised  to  Albert  by 
the  vision,  during  his  thirtieth  year.  Do  not  endeavor  to  conceal  from 
me  that  you  have  understood  it  as  I — for  I assure  you  I am  in  nowise 
envious  of  a mission  so  celestial.” 

“ Listen  to  me,  dear  Porporina,”  interposed  the  canoness,  who  had 
been  musing  for  a minute  or  two.  u It  has  ever  been  a fancy  of  ours 
that  when  Albert  disappears'  from  us,  as  I might  say  magically,  he  is 
hidden  not  far  from  us,  perhaps  in  this  very  house,  in  sbme  secret 
place  known  to  himself  alone.  I know  not  why,  but  I have  an  idea 
that  were  y.ou  to  sing  now,  he  might  hear  you  and  return  to  us.” 

“ Could  I but  suppose  so,”  sail  Consuelo,  doubtfully. 

u Suppose,  however,  if  Albert  be  so  near  us,  that  music  augments 
his  delirium,”  interposed  Amelia,  who  was  really  jealous. 

“ At  all  events,”  exclaimed  Count  Christian,  “ it  is  an  experiment 
that  must  be  tried.  I have  heard  that  Farinelli  had  a charm  in  his 
song  to  dissipate  the  black  melancholy  of  the  King  of  Spain,  as  had 
young  David  to  appease  the  fury  of  Saul  by  the  witchery  of  his  harp. 
Make  the  trial,  then,  Porporina;  a soul  so  pure  as  yours  can  have 
none  but  beneficent  influences  on  all  around.” 

Consuelo,  who  was  now  touched,  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began 
to  sing  a Spanish  canticle  in  honor  of  our  Lady  of  Consolation,  which 
her  mother  had  taught  her  in  her  childhood,  beginning  with  the  words 
u Consuelo  de  mi  alma — O solace  of  my  soul,”  &c.  She  sang  it  so 
purely  and  with  so  marked  an  accent  of  piety,  that  the  owner  of  the 
old  manor-h<*  use  almost  forgot  the  subject  of  their  anxieties  in  the 
sentiments  of  faith  and  hr  pe  which  the  music  excited  within  them. 
Deep  silence  dwelt  within  and  without  the  castle  wall ; the  doors  and 
windows  had  been  thrown  open,  in  rder  to  give  its  widest  and  fullest 
scope  to  the  voice  of  Consuelo,  and  the  moon  was  pouring  her  pale 
bluish  lustre  through  the  embrasures  of  the  large  windows.  All  waa 
calm ; and  a sort  of  serenity  of  soul  had  succeeded  to  despair  in  the 
hearts  of  all — when  a deep  long  sigh,  like  that  of  a human  being,  waa 
heard  at  the  close  of  Consuelo’s  last  tones.  That  sigh  was  so  long 
drawn  and  so  well  defined,  that  every  person  present  heard  it,  even 
the  Baron  Frederick,  who  startled  from  his  dose  and  half  awoke,  as 
if  he  had  been  suddenly  called.  Every  one  turned  pale,  and  all  gazed 


168 


COMSUILO 


etch  at  the  other,  as  if  to  say— “ It  is  not  I ; is  it  you  who  did  that  t * 
—and  Consuek),  who  fancied  that  the  sigh  was  uttered  close  beside 
her  at  the  piano,  though  she  sat  apart  from  all  the  family,  was  so  ter- 
rified that  literally  she  could  not  speak. 

“ Mercy  of  heaven! ” cried  the  canoness  aghast;  “ seemed  not  that 
sigh  to  exhale  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth  ? ” 

“Say  rather,  aunt,”  exclaimed  Amelia,  “seemed  it  not  to  pass 
over  our  heads  like  the  night-wind?  ” 

“ Perhaps  some  screech-owl,  attracted  by  the  lights,  flitted  through 
the  room  while  we  were  all  suspended  on  the  music,  and  we  caught 
the  rustle  of  his  pinions  as  he  passed  through  the  windows.”  Such 
was  the  chaplain’s  explanation,  but  for  all  that,  his  teeth  chattered 
with  very  fear. 

“ Perhaps  it  is  Albert’s  dog!  ” said  the  Cowat  Christian. 

“ Cynabre  is  not  here,”  replied  Amelia;  “ Wherever  Albert  is,  Cy- 
nabre  is  with  him  there.  Some  one  hereabout,  undoubtedly,  sighed 
strangely.  If  I were  not  afraid  of  going  to  the  window,  I would  go 
and  see  if  some  one  be  not  listening  in  the  garden;  but  were  my  life 
at  stake,  I have  not  strength  to  do  it.” 

“ For  a person  so  free  from  all  prejudice,”  said  Consuelo  with  alow 
voice  and  a forced  smile ; “ for  one  boasting  herself  a little  French 

•ageous,  dear  baroness.  I will  see 


xsv  uui  txjr  lb,  my  ucttr,  answered  Amelia  aloud;  “and  don’t 
affect  to  be  brave,  for  you  are  as  pale  as  death  now,  and  you  will  be  ill 
the  next  thing.” 

“What  silly  whims  you  indulge  in,  my  dear  Amelia,”  answered 
Count  Christian,  directing  his  steps  firmly  and  gravely  to  the  open 
window.— “ There  is  no  one,”  he  said,  after  looking  out ; and  then 
added,  after  shutting  the  casement — “it  seems  to  me  that  real  ail- 
ments are  not  keen  enough  for  the  excited  fancies  of  women ; and 
that  they  must  always  add  the  creatures  of  their  own  brains  to  real 
sorrows  which  need  no  addition.  There  is  assuredly  nothing  mysteri- 
ous in  that  sigh.  Some  one  of  us,  moved  by  the  signora’s  fine  sing- 
ing, probably  without  self-consciousness,  uttered  that  deep-J:*wn  as- 
piration. Perhaps  it  is  I who  did  so,  yet  I know  it  not.  Ah  Porpo- 
rina,  though  you  succeed  not  in  curing  Albert,  at  the  least  you  have 
discovered  how  to  pour  a heavenly  balm  into  wounds  as  deeply  seated 
as  his  own.” 

The  words  of  this  good  old  man,  who  was  ever  calm  and  self-re- 
strained amid  the  deepest  domestic  troubles,  were  in  themselves  in 
some  sort  a healing  balm,  and  as  such  Consuelo  felt  them.  She  felt 
almost  inclined  to  cast  herself  on  her  knees  before  him,  and  implore 
his  benediction,  such  a benediction  as  she  had  received  from  Porpora 
before  leaving  him,  and  from  Marcell  ),  on  that  brightest  day  of  her 
existence,  which  had  beer,  to  her  but  the  beginning  of  an  unbroken 
scries  of  misfortune* 


CON  SUB  lift* 


16f 


CHAPTER  mm. 

Several  days  passed  over  without  their  hearing  any  news  of 
Count  Albert;  and  Consuelo,  to  whom  this  position  of  things  ap- 
peared dismal  in  the  extreme,  was  astonished  to  see  the  Rudolstadt 
family  bear  so  frightful  a state  of  uncertainty  without  evincing  either 
despair  or  much  impatience.  Familiarity  with  the  most  cruel  anxie- 
ties, produce  a sort  of  apparent  apathy,  or  else  real  hardness  of  heart, 
which  wounds  and  almost  irritates  those  minds  whose  sensibility  has 
not  yet  been  blunted  by  long-continued  misfortune.  Consuelo,  sub- 
ject to  a sort  of  nightmare  in  the  midst  of  these  doleful  impressions 
and  inexplicable  occurrences,  w as  astonished  to  see  that  the  order  of 
the  house  was  hardly  disturbed,  that  the  canoness  was  equally  vigi- 
lant, the  baron  equally  eager  for  the  chase,  the  chaplain  regular  as 
ever  in  the  same  devotional  exercises,  and  Amelia  gay  and  trifling  as 
usual.  The  cheerful  vivacity  of  the  latter  was  what  particularly 
offended  Consuelo.  She  could  not  conceive  how  the  baroness  could 
laugh  and  play,  while  she  herself  could  hardly  read  or  work  with  her 
needle.  The  canoness,  however,  employed  herself  in  embroidering 
an  altar  front  for  the  chapel  of  the  castle.  It  was  a masterpiece  of 
patience,  exquisite  workmanship,  and  neatness.  Hardly  had  she 
made  the  tour  of  the  house,  when  she  returned  to  seat  herself  at  her 
work,  were  it  only  to  add  a few  stitches,  whil  waiting  to  be  called  by 
new  cares  to  the  barns;  the  kitchens,  or  the  cellars.  One  should  have 
seen  with  how  much  importance  these  little  concerns  were  treated, 
and  how  that  fragile  being  was  hurried  along,  at  a pace  always  regu- 
lar, always  dignified  and  measured,  but  never  slackened,  through  all 
the  corners  of  her  little  empire;  crossing  a thousand  times  daily  in  all 
possible  directions  the  narrow  and  monotonous  surface  of  her  domes- 
tic demesnes.  What  also  seemed  strange  to  Consuelo  was  the  respect 
and  admiration  which  the  family  and  country  in  general  attached  to 
this  indefatigable  housekeeping — a pursuit,  which  the  old  lady  seemed 
to  have  embraced  with  such  ardor  and  jealous  observance.*  To  see 
her  parsimoniously  regulating  the  most  trivial  affairs,  one  yould 
have  thought  her  covetous  and  distrustful ; and  yet  on  important  oc- 
casions she  displayed  a soul  deeply  imbued  with  noble  and  generous 
sentiments.  But  these  excellent  qualities,  especially  her  motherly 
affections,  which  gave  her  in  Consuelo’s  eyes  so  sympathizing  and  ven- 
erable an  air,  would  not  of  themselves  have  been  sufficient  in  the  eyes 
of  others  to  elevate  her  to  the  rank  of  the  heroine  of  the  family. 
She  required,  besides,  the  far  more  important  qualification  of  a scru- 
pulous attention  to  the  trifling  details  of  the  household,  to  cause  her 
to  be  appreciated  for  what  she  really  was,  notwithstanding  what  has 
been  said,  a woman  of  strong  sense  and  high  moral  feeling.  Not  a 
day  passed  that  Count  Christian,  the  baron,  or  the  chaplain,  did  not 
repeat  every  time  she  turned  her  back,  “ How  much  wisdom,  how 
much  courage,  how  much  strength  of  mind  does  the  canoness  dis- 
play!” Amelia  herself,  not  distinguishing  the  true  and  ennobling 
purpose  of  life,  in  the  midst  of  puerilities  which,  under  another  form, 
constituted  the  whole  of  hers,  did  not  venture  to  disparage  her  aunt 
under  this  point  of  view,  the  only  one  that,  in  Consuelo’s  eyes,  cast  a 
shadow  upon  the  bright  light  which  shone  from  the  pure  and  loving 
soul  of  the  hunchback  Wenceslawa,  To  the  zingarella,  born  upon  the 


160 


CONSUELO. 


highway  and  thrown  helpless  on  the  world  without  any  other  masta 
or  any  other  protection  than  her  own  genius,  so  raueh  care,  so  much 
activity  and  intensity  of  thought  to  produce  such  miserable  result* 
ai  the  preservation  and  maintenance  of  certain  objects  and  certain 
provisions,  appeared  an  absurd  perversion  of  human  intelligence. 
She  who  possessed  none  and  desired  none  of  the  world’s  riches,  was 
griev  )d  to  see  a lovely  and  generous  soul  suffer  itself  to  be  absorbed 
wholly  in  the  business  of  looking  after  wheat,  wine,  wood,  hemp, 
cattle,  and  furniture.  If  they  had  offered  her  all  these  goods,  so 
much  desired  by  the  greater  part  of  mankind,  she  would  have  asked, 
instead,  a moment  of  her  former  happiness,  her  rags,  the  clear  and 
lovely  sky  above  her  head,  her  fresh  'young  love  and  her  liberty  upon 
the  lagunes  of  Venice — all  that  was  stamped  on  her  memory  in  moie 
and  more  glowing  colors,  in  proportion  as  she  receded  from  that  gay 
and  laughing  horizon  to  penetrate  into  the  frozen  sphere  which  is 
called  real  life  I 

She  felt  her  heart  sink  in  her  bosom  when  at  nightfall  she  saw  the 
old  canoness,  followed  by  Hans,  take  an  immense  bunch  of  keys,  and 
make  the  circuit  of  all  the  buildings  and  all  the  courts,  closing  the  least 
openings,  and  examining  the  smallest  recesses  into  which  an  evil-doer 
could  have  crept;  as  if  no  one  could  sleep  in  security  within  those 
formidable  walls,  until  the  water  of  the  torrent,  which  was  restrained 
behind  a neighboring  dam  came  rushing  and  roaring  into  the  trenches 
of  the  chateau,  whilst  in  addition  the  gates  were  locked  and  the  draw- 
bridge raised.  Consuelo  had  so  often  slept,  in  her  distant  wanderings 
by  the  roadside,  with  no  covering  save  her  mother’s  tom  cloak  thrown 
over  her  for  shelter ! She  had  so  often  welcomed  the  dawn  upon  the 
snowy  flagstones  of  Venice,  washed  by  the  waves,  without  having  a 
moment’s  fear  for  her  modesty,  the  only  wealth  she  cared  to  preserve  I 
“ Alas  I ” said  she,  “ how  unhappy  are  these  people  in  having  so  many 
things  to  take  care  of!  Security  is  the  aim  of  their  pursuits  by  day 
and  night,  and  so  carefully  do  they  seek  it,  that  they  have  no  time  to 
find  or  enjoy  it.”  Like  Amelia,  therefore,  she  already  pined  in  her 
gloomy  prison  —that  dark  and  sombre  Castle  of  the  Giants,  where  the 
sun  himself  seemed  afraid  to  penetrate.  But  while  the  young  baroness 
only  thought  of  fetes,  of  dresses,  and  whispering  suitors,  Consuelo 
dreamt  of  wandering  beside  her  native  wave-washed  shores — a thicket 
or  a fisher-boat  for  her  palace,  the  boundless  heavens  for  her  covering, 
and  the  starry  firmament  to  gaze  on ! 

Forced  by  the  cold  of  the  climate,  and  the  closing  of  the  castle 
gates,  to  change  the  Venetian  custom  which  she  had  retained,  of 
watching  during  a part  of  the  night,  and  rising  late  in  the  morning, 
she  at  last  succeeded,  after  many  hours  of  sleeplessness,  agitation,  and 
melancholy  dreams,  in  submitting  to  the  austere  law  of  the  cloister, 
and  recompensed  herself  by  undertaking,  alone,  several  morning 
walks  in  the  neighboring  mountain.  The  gates  were  opened  and  the 
bridges  lowered  at  the  fir3t  dawn  of  day,  and  while  Amelia,  secretly 
occupied  in  reading  novels  during  one  half  the  night,  slept  until  ( 
awakened  by  the  first  breakfast  bell,  Porporina  sallied  forth  to  breathe 
the  fresh  air,  and  brush  the  early  dew  from  the  herbage  of  the  forest 
One  morning,  as  she  descended  softly  on  tiptoe,  in  order  to  awaken 
no  one,  she  mistook  the  direction  she  ought  to  take,  among  the  num- 
berless staircases  and  interminable  corridors  of  the  chateau,  of  which 
the  had  not  yet  informed  herself.  Embarrassed  in  a maze  of  galleries 
and  passages,  she  passed  through  a sort  of  antechamber,  which  she 


0OHSUSLO. 


161 

neve  ? seen  before,  still  expecting  to  find  a way  through  it  into  the 
garden.  But  she  merely  reached  the  entrance  of  a little  chapel,  built 
m a beautiful  but  antique  style,  and  dimly  lighted  from  above  by  a 
circular  window  of  stained  glass  in  the  vaulted  ceiling,  which  threw  a 
feeble  light  upon  the  centre  of  the  pavement,  and  left  the  extremities 
of  the  building  in  mysterious  gloom.  The  sun  was  still  below  the 
horizon,  and  the  morning  grey  and  foggy.  At  first,  Consuelo  thought 
herself  in  the  chapel  of  the  chateau,  where  she  had  heard  mass  the 
preceding  Monday.  She  knew  that  the  chapel  opened  upon  the  gar- 
dens ; but  before  crossing  it  to  go  out,  she  wished  to  honor  the  sanc- 
tuary of  prayer,  and  knelt  upon  the  first  step  of  the  altar.  But,  as  it 
often  happens  to  artists  to  be  preoccupied  with  outward  objects  in 
spite  of  their  attempts  to  ascend  into  the  sphere  of  abstract  ideas,  her 
prayer  could  not  absorb  her  sufficiently  to  prevent  her  casting  a glance 
of  curiosity  around  her;  and  she  soon  perceived  that  she  was  not  in 
the  chapel,  but  in  a place  to  which  she  had  not  before  penetrated. 
It  was  neither  the  same  shrine  nor  the  same  ornaments.  Although 
this  unknown  chapel  was  very  small,  she  could  hardly  as  yet  distin- 
guish objects  around  her;  but  what  struck  Consuelo  most  wTas  a 
marble  statue  kneeling  before  the  altar,  in  that  cold  and  severe  atti- 
tude in  which  all  figures  on  tombs  were  formerly  represented.  She 
concluded  that  she  was  in  a place  reserved  for  the  sepulchres  of  some 
distinguished  ancestors,  and  having  become  somewhat  fearful  and 
superstitious  since  her  residence  in  Bohemia,  she  shortened  her 
prayer,  and  rose  to  retire. 

But  just  as  she  was  turning  a last  half-timid. glance  toward  the 
kneeling  statue  which  was  scarce  ten  paces  distant,  she  saw  the  mar- 
ble figure  unclasp  its  stony  fingers,  and  make  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

Consuelo  was  on  the  point  of  fainting,  yet  she  lacked  power  to 
withdraw  her  glaring  eyes  from  that  horrible  statue.  What  held  her 
firm  in  the  conviction  that  it  was  but  a statue,  was  perceiving  that  it 
did  not  hear  the  outcry  which  broke  from  her  lips,  and  that  it  again 
folded  its  massive  white  hands,  all  unconscious  in  appearance  of  any 
exterior  world. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Had  the  ingenious  and  imaginative  Anne  RadclifFe  found  herself 
in  the  place  of  the  candid  and  unskilful  narrator  of  this  true  narra- 
tive, she  would  not  have  allowed  so  good  an  opportunity  to  escape, 
of  conducting  you,  fair  reader,  through  corridors,  trap-doors,  winding 
staircases,  and  subterranean  passages,  through  hal£a-dozen  flowery 
and  attractive  volumes,  to  reveal  to  you  only  at  the  seventh,  all  the 
mysteries  of  her  skilful  labors.  But  the  unsuperstitious  reader,  whom 
it  is  for  me  to  entertain,  would  not  probably  lend  herself  so  willingly 
at  the  present  period,  to  the  innocent  stratagem  of  the  romancer. 
Besides,  as  it  might  be  difficult  to  make  her  believe  them,  we  will  give 
her  the  key  to  all  our  mysteries,  as  quickly  as  we  can.  And  to  ex- 
plain two  of  them  at  once,  we  will  confess  that  Consuelo,  after  some 
moments  of  self-collectedness,  recognised,  in  the  animated  statue  be- 
fore her  eyes,  the  •fid  Count  Christian,  who  was  mentally  reciting  hi« 
morning  prayer*  in  his  oratory,  and  in  the  sigh  of  compuuctl  >n 

i 


6 O S » tJ* L 6. 


161 

whch  unconsciously  escaped  from  him,  the  same  mysterious  sigh 
which  she  thought  she  had  heard  close  beside  her,  on  the  evening 
when  she  sang  the  hymn  to  Our  Lady  oi  Consolation. 

A little  ashamed  of  her  fears,  Consuelo  remained  rooted  to  her 
place  by  veneration,  and  a dislike  to  interrupt  a prayer  so  fervent. 
Nothing  could  he  more  solemn  or  more  touching  than  to  behold  that 
old  man,  prostrate  upon  the  stone  pavement,  offering  his  heart  to 
God  at  the  opening  of  the  day,  and  steeped  in  a kind  of  heavenly  ec- 
stacy,  which  appeared  to  close  his  senses  to  all  perception  of  the  out- 
ward World.  His  noble  features  did  not  betray  any  emotion  of  grief. 
A gentle  breeze,  penetrating  by  the  door  which  Consuelo  had  left 
open,  agitated  the  semi-circle  of  silvery  hair  which  still  remained 
upon  the  back  part  of  his  head,  and  his  massive  brow,  bald  to  the 
very  crown,  wore  the  lustrous  yellowish  hue  of  antique  marble.  Clad 
in  an  old-fashioned  morning-gown  of  white  flannel,  falling  about  his 
slender  frame  like  the  frock  of  a monk,  in  stiff  and  massive  draperies, 
gave  him  a certain  resemblance  to  a monumental  statue,  so  that 
Consuelo  had  to  look  at  him  twice  after  he  had  resumed  his  fixed  at- 
titude, to  assure  herself  that  her  first  impression  was  illusory. 

After  gazing  at  him  attentively  for  a while,  and  changing  her  own 
position  so  as  to  see  him  in  a better  light,  she  inquired  of  her  own 
heart,  half  unwittingly,  still  touched  and  imbued  with  veneration, 
whether  such  prayer  as  this  old  man  put  up  to  heaven  could  really  be 
efficacious  to  the  recovery  of  his  hapless  son,  and  whether  a spirit  so 
passively  subjected  to  dogmatic  rules,  could  at  any  time  possess  the 
warmth,  the  appreciation  and  the  zealous  love  which  Albert  looked  to 
find  within  the  soul  of  his  father.  There  was  something  mystical  in 
the  very  soul  of  Albert.  He  also  had  led  a life  of  devotion  and  con- 
templation, but  according  to  all  that  Consuelo  had  heard  from  Ame- 
lia, according  to  all  that  she  had  beheld  herself,  since  her  abode  in 
the  castle,  Albert  had  ever  lacked  the  counsellor,  the  guide  and  the 
friend,  who  might  have  directed  his  imagination  aright,  softened  the 
over-excitement  of  his  feelings,  and  turned  to  tenderness  the  rugged 
fervor  of  his  austere  virtue.  She  saw  that  of  necessity  he  must  have 
felt  himself  alone  among  a family  resolute  either  to  contradict,  or 
silently  to  pity  him  as  either  heretic  or  madman ; she  even  felt  some- 
thing of  the  kind  herself,  in  the  half  impatience  which  arose  within 
her  at  sight  of  that  impassive  and  interminable  prayer  put  up  to 
Heaven,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  casting  upon  Heaven  the.  cares  which 
it  was  for  those,  who  prayed,  inactive,  to  take  themselves  in  the  search 
after  the  fugitive,  his  recovery,  his  persuasion,  and  his  restoration  to 
reason.  For  there  must,  she  thought,  be  6ome  deep-rooted  despair,  to 
wrench  a young  man,  so  affectionate  and  kindly-natured,  from  the 
bosom  of  his  friends,  to  render  him  altogether  self-forgetful,  and  even 
to  destroy  within  him  the  knowledge  of  the  uneasiness  and  sorrow 
which  his  conduct  must  needs  cause  to  his  nearest  and  his  dearest 

The  course  which  they  had  fallen  upon  of  never  arguing  with  him, 
and  of  affecting  calmness  while  feeling  consternation,  seemed  to  the 
firm  and  well-balanced  mind  of  the  girl  either  a culpable  piece  of 
neglect  or  a blunder  the  most  obvious.  She  saw  in  it  something  of 
that  peculiar  pride  and  self-conceit  which  is  imposed  by  a narrow  and 
intolerant  crend  on  people  who  consent  to  wear  the  bands  of  self- 
righteousness,  and  who  can  sea  but  one  road  to  heaven,  and  that 
traced  by  the  undeviating  finger  of  the  priest. 

* Heavenly  powers  I”  exclaimed  Consuelo,  half  praying  mentally; 


ids 

* a It  possible  that  the  expansive,  ardent,  charitable  soul  of  Alberti 
devoid  as  it  is  of  human  passions,  can  be  less  acceptable  in  your  sight 
than  those  patient  and  slothful  spirits  which  submit  themselves  to  the 
injustice  of  the  world,  and  see  truth  and  justice  dailja  violated  on  this 
earth  ? Could  he  be  acting  under  Satanic  inspiration,  who  when  a 
child  at  the  first  dawning  of  intellect,  gave  his  toys  and  decorations 
to  the  children  of  poverty  ? and  who,  when  early  reflection  began  to 
mature,  would  have  abandoned  all  his  wealth  for  the  consolation  of 
human  suffering  ? And  can  these  mild  and  gentle  nobles,  who  de- 
plore the  woes  of  others  with  barren  tears,  or  solace  them  with  inef- 
fective griefs,  be  wise  in  the  belief  that  they  are  gaining  heaven  by 
mere  prayers  and  acts  of  submission  to  the  Emperor  or  the  Pope, 
rather  than  by  great  works  and  greater  sacrifices  ? No,  Albert  is  not 
a madman.  A voice  cries  to  me  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  that  he 
is  the  finest  type  of  a good,  just  man  that  ever  had  its  being  from  the 
hands  of  Nature.  If  he  have  his  painful  visions,  if  fantastic  ideas 
have  obscured  hfe  reason — if  even,  as  they  suppose,  he  be  deranged, 
it  is  blind  contradiction,  it  is  the  craving  for  sympathy — it  is  the  lone- 
liness of  the  heart,  that  have  brought  him  to  a condition  deplorable. 
Have  not  I seen  the  cell  in  which  Tasso  was  immured  for  a madman, 
and  felt  that  what  they  called  madness  might  have  been  but  the  in- 
dignation of  genius  burning  beneath  oppression  ? Have  not  I heard 
in  the  saloons  of  Venice  the  august  saints  and  martyrs  of  Christianity 
treated  as  fools  and  madmen — they  whose  histories  called  forth  my 
tears  and  awoke  wild  musings  in  my  childhood  ? And  what  right 
have  these  fdlk,  this  pious  old  man,  this  timid  canoness,  who  believe, 
nevertheless,  in  the  miracles  of  saints  and  the  genius  of  poets,  to 
pronounce  on  their  child  a sentence  of  shame  and  reprobation  which 
should  attach  to  knaves  and  weak  fools  only?  Mad!  no.  But  mad- 
ness is  horrible,  repulsive — it  must  be  God’s  judgment  on  great  crimes. 
How  should  a man  become  mad  by  excess  of  virtue  ? And  were  it 
so,  I should  deem  the  .being,  bowed  beneath  the  weight  of  a misery  so 
unmerited,  entitled  to  the  respect  no  less  than  to  the  pity  of  men ; 
and  had  I become  mad— had  I blasphemed  when  I became  awake  to 
Anzoleto’s  infidelity,  should  I have  lost  all  right  to  the  encourage- 
ment and  spiritual  support  of  Christians?  Would  they  have  cast  me 
out,  or  let  me  die  in  the  street  saying — ‘ There  is  no  help  for  her, 
through  over-misery  she  has  lost  her  reason  ?’  Yet  it  is  thus  they 
treat  this  hapless  Albert.  They  feed  him,  clothe  him,  tend  him,  ren- 
der him,  in  fact,  the  alms  of  a puerile  affection.  They  converse  not 
with  him — if  he  question,  they  hold  silence ; if  he  seeks  to  persuade, 
they  bow  the  head,  or  turn  away  from  him  in  horror.  When  hta 
very  disgust  of  solitude,  drives  hjjm  into  solitudes  deeper  yet,  they 
await  his  return,  praying  God  to  watch  over  him  and  to  bring  him 
back  to  them  safe  and  sound,  as  though  the  ocean  rolled  between 
him  and  the  objects  of  his  affection.  And  yet  they  believe  he  is  not 
far  off— they  call  on  me  to  sing  in  order  to  awaken  him,  as  though 
he  slept  a lethargic  sleep  in  the  thickness  of  some  wall,  or  within  the 
cavity  of  some  huge  hoYlow  tree.  And  yet  they  have  neither  explored 
the  secrets  of  this  antique  dwelling,  nor  hollowed  out  the  entrails  of 
this  cavernous  rocky  region.  Ah ! were  I Albert’s  aunt  or  father,  I 
would  not  have  left  stone  on  stone  until  I had  recovered  him ; not  a 
tree  should  have  stood  erect  in  the  forest  till  he  had  been  restored  to 
my  arms.” 

Absorbed  in  sad  musings,  Consuelo  had  issued  noiselessly  from 


60W  SUSLO* 


164 

Count  Christian’s  oratory — had  found,  she  knew  not  how,  the  gatti 
Into  the  country.  She  wandered  among  the  forest  paths,  seeking  the 
wildest  and  most  intricate,  led  by  romantic  heroism,  and  burning  with 
the  desire  of  finding  Albert. 

Yet  in  all  this,  there  was  nothing  of  vulgar  attraction,  or  imprudent 
fantasy  prompting  her  to  do  this.  It  was  not  the  handsome  and  en* 
thusiastic  youth,  whom  she  sought  to  encounter,  but  the  hapless  no- 
ble, whom  she  hoped  to  save  or  at  least  to  soothe ; as  she  would  have 
done  for  an  old  and  hapless  hermit,  or  as  a child  which  had  strayed 
from  its  mother.  She  mused,  and  undertook  her  pilgrimage,  as  Joan 
of  Arc  mused,  and  undertook  to  deliver  her  country.  Nor  did  she 
dream  that  such  a project  would  be  regarded  with  ridicule,  or  that 
Amelia  herself,  led  by  the  cry  of  kinship,  would  have  failed  to  attempt 
or  succeed  in  the  same. 

She  walked  on  rapidly,  undeterred  by  any  obstacle.  The  silence 
of  the  mighty  woods  neither  saddened  nor  alarmed  her  spirits.  She 
saw  the  slot  of  wolves  in  the  sand,  yet  felt  no  apprehensions  of  their 
gaunt  and  famished  pack.  She  fancied  herself  impelled  by  a protect- 
ing hand  from  heaven.  Knowing  Tasso  by  heart,  so  often  had  she  sung 
him  whole  nights  through  on  the  lagunes,  she  fancied  herself  sheltered 
by  a talisman,  as  the  noble  Ubaldo  in  search  of  Iiinaldo  through  the 
perils  or  the  enchanted  forest.  Swift  and  light-footed  she  passed 
through  briars,  over  rocks,  her  eyes  beaming  and  her  cheeks  plowing 
with  a sort  of  secret  pride.  Never  in  her  days  of  scenic  heroism  had 
she  looked  handsomer,  yet  she  thought  no  more  of  herself  at  this  in- 
stant than  she  did  when  she  trod  the  boards  of  the  theatre. 

From  time  to  time  she  paused  to  think  and  recollect  herself ; doubt- 
ing what  she  should  do  in  case  of  meeting  him ; conscious  that  she 
knew  nothing  of  the  deep  mysteries  which  disturbed  him ; aware  that 
she  saw  but  dimly  through  a poetic  veil,  and  with  eyes  dazzled  by 
these. novel  visions.  Again  she  felt  something  more  than  ardor  and 
devotion  to  bring  back  to  the  society  of  the  common-place  people 
among  whom  he  had  lived  a man  so  superior  to  herself,  a madman  so 
wise  and  learned,  while  she  knew  herself  to  lack  the  eloquence,  the 
learning  to  persuade  so  singular  a being.  She  went,  however,  confi- 
dent that  heaven  would  inspire  her  at  the  moment  of  need,  and 
though  convinced  that  she  was  destitute  of  historic  and  religious  lore 
she  was  yet  convinced  that  th^re  was  more  power,  as  she  half  whis 
pered  to  herself,  in  the  resolution  of  her  own  sympathizing  heart, 
than  in  all  the  studied  doctrins  of  his  parent,  kind  and  gentle  as  the? 
were,  yet  undecided  and  cold  as  the  mists  on  the  snow-wreaths  of 
their  native  mountains. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

After  going  and  returning  many  times  to  and  fro  amid  the  wind- 
ing paths  of  that  wilderness,  scattered  at  random  over  a hilly  and 
broken  district,  she  came  at  length  upon  an  elevation,  so  covered  with 
splintered  rocks  and  ruined  walls,  that  it  was  not  easy  to  discern 
whether  the  hand  of  man  or  of  time  had  been  the  most  destructive. 
II  waa  M more  now  than  a hill  of  fragments,  where  once  had  stood  a 


toirstfXLo. 


166 


village,  burned  by  the  orders  of  the  terribve  blind  man,  the  dread  oal- 
ixtin  chief,  John  Ziska,  from  whom  Albert  imagined  himself  to  be 
descended,  and  perhaps  was  so  in  reality.  During  a dark  and  gloomy 
night,  so  ran  the  tale,  that  fierce  and  indefatigable  warrior,  having 
given  orders  to  bis  troops  to  attack  the  Giant’s  Castle,  then  garri- 
soned for  the  king  of  Saxony,  had  heard  one  of  his  soldiers  exclaim 
angrily,  “ that  cursed  blind  man  fancies  that  every  one  can  do  with- 
out daylight  as  well  as  himself,”  whereat,  turning  to  one  of  his  disci- 
ples who  drew  his  car,  enquired  according  to  the  guidance  of  memoir, 
or  that  instinct  which  directed  him  in  lieu  of  the  other  senses,  * Is 
there  not  a village  hereaway?  ” and  being  answered  in  the  affirma- 
tive, he  desired  the  mutinous  soldier  to  go  at  once  and  fire  the  village, 
telling  him  that  the  flames  would  give  ample  light  by  which  to  man- 
oeuvre and  to  fight.  The  terrible  order  was  given  and  executed,  and 
aided  by  the  glare  of  the  burning  village,  the  Taborites  stormed  the 
Giant’s  Castle,  and  Ziska  was  in  quiet  possession  of  it  before  the 
morning.  On  the  following  day,  at  dawn,  he  was  informed  that  in 
tne  midst  of  the  ruins  of  the  burnt  village,  there  was  standing  on  a sort 
of  a platform,  whence  the  soldiers  had  observed  the  attack  of  the  for- 
tress, a young  and  thriving  oak,  not  a leaf  of  which  had  been  withered 
by  the  heat,  having  escaped  destruction,  as  it  would  seem,  owing  to 
its  roots  being  watered  by  a deep  cistern  beneath  its  shade. 

u I know  the  cistern  well,”  cried  Ziska.  * Ten  of  our  people  were 
drowned  in  it;  and  since  that  day  the  stone  which  covers  it  never  has 
been  raised.  Well,  let  it  remain,  and  serve  them  for  a monument, 
since  we  are  not  o£  those  who  believe  that  souls  perish  because  the 
bodies  rot  in  unconsecrated  ground.  Let  the  bones  of  our  brothers 
rot  where  they  lie,  since  their  souls  are  alive,  and  doing  battle  for  us, 
though  we  see  them  not.  For  the  inhabitants  of  the  village,  they 
nave  received  their  punishment;  for  the  oak,  it  has  been  preserved  for 
another  destiny  than  giving  shade  to  miscreants.  We  have  need  of  a 
gallows ; bring  me  the  twenty  Augustin  monks  whom  we  took  in  their 
convent  yesterday,  and  hang  them  high  on  the  branches  of  the  brave 
oak.  That  ornament  will  give  it  all  its  ancient  health.” 

It  was  done  as  quickly  as  commanded,  and  from  that  day  the  oak 
was  named  the  Hussite , the  stone  over  the  cistern,  the  Stone  of  Ter- 
ror, and  the  ruined  village  on  the  deserted  hill,  the  Shreckenstein. 
Consuelo  had  already  heard  this  tale  of  horror  from  the  Baroness 
Amelia,  with  all  its  terrible  details;  but,  since  hitherto  ?.he  had  seen 
it  only  from  a distance,  save  during  the  night  of  her  arr;  eal  at  the  cas- 
tle, she  would  not  have  recognized  it,  had  she  not  disco  vered  on  cast- 
ing her  eyes  downward  into  the  deep  ravine,  through  which  wound 
the  high  road,  the  fragments  of  the  thunderstricken  '*ak,  which  no 
villager  or  vassal  of  the  castle  had  dared  to  remove,  owing  to  the  su- 
perstitious awe  which  had  attached  for  centuries  to  iat  monument 
of  horror,  that  contemporary  of  the  fierce  John  Ziska 
The  predictions  and  visions  of  Count  Albert  had  ah  o invested  t>« 
place  with  a touching  and  tragic  character,  so  that  evea  Consuelo  Ife* 
a thrill  of  terror  as  she  found  herself  seated  on  that  5 tone  of  Terrnt 
so  unexpectedly.  Nor  w*as  her  alarm  wholly  groundless,  for,  since  in 
the  belief  not  only  of  Albert,  but  of  all  the  mountaineers,  the  hill  was 
invested  with  strange  terrors  and  haunted  by  terrible  apparitions, 
Close  as  it  was  to  the  castle,  the  Shreckenstein  was  often  the  haunt  of 
wild  beasts,  safe  from  the  pursuit  not  only  of  the  hunters  b>  profe* 
•ion,  but  even  of  Count  Frederick  and  of  his  trusty  h oath-  . 


166 


<?  0 B I U K L O, 


The  impassive  baron  cared  not,  it  is  true,  much  for  the  demons  which 
were  held  to  haunt  the  spot;  but  he  did  dread,  in  his  own  peculiar 
line,  a pernicious  influence  which  he  believed  to  threaten  all  dogs 
which  drank  of  the  clear  rills  which  burst  out  on  all  sides  from  the 
rocky  hill,  issuing  probably  from  the  dreaded  cistern,  that  ancient  bur- 
ial place  of  the  Hussites.  So  that  he  sternly  recalled  his  greyhound 
Sapphyr,  or  his  double-nosed  Pankin,  whensoever  they  invaded  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Schreckenstein . 

Ashamed,  however,  of  her  own  weakness,  Consuelo  determined  on 
the  instant  to  conquer  it,  and  resolved  as  a duty  to  sit  a moment 
longer  on  the  fatal  stone,  and  to  retire  from  it  only  with  the  slow  pace 
becoming  a determined  spirit.  But  just  as  she  withdrew  her  gaze 
from  the  blasted  oak,  which  lay  perhaps  a hundred  feet  below  her  in 
the  gorge,  to  look  on  nearer  objects,  she  perceived  that  she  was  no 
longer  alone  on  the  Stone  of  Terror , but  that  a strange  figure  had 
seated  itself  beside  her,  without  giving  token  of  its  approach  by  the 
slightest  sound. 

It  was  a round,  gaping  head,  moving  to  and  fro,  on  a deformed  body, 
lean  and  distorted  as  that  of  a grasshopper,  covered  with  an  indescri- 
bable costume  belonging  to  no  date  or  country,  and  so  dilapidated  as 
to  be  more  than  slovenly.  The  figure  was  still  in  no  degree  alarming 
beyond  its  strangeness,  and  the  suddenness  of  its  appearance,  for  it 
showed  no  symptoms  of  hostility — on  the  contrary,  a soft  and  caress* 
ing  smile  played  around  its  wide  mouth,  and  a mild,  child-like  expres- 
sion softened  down  the  want  of  intellect,  which  was  evident  from  its 
wandering  eye  and  hurried  gestures.  Yet  Consuelo,  when  she  found 
herself  alone  with  an  idiot,  in  a place  where  assuredly  no  person  could 
come  to  her  aid,  was  really  afraid,  in  spite  of  the  numerous  reverences 
and  affectionate  smiles  which  the  poor  fool  offered  to  her.  She  judged 
it  for  the  best  to  return  his  smiles,  and  bows,  so  to  avoid  irritating  him, 
but  she  arose  in  haste,  and  hurried  away,  pale  and  trembling. 

The  idiot  did  not  offer  to  follow  or  recall  her,  but  jumped  on  the 
Stone  of  Terror , following  her  with  his  eyes,  jumping  about,  and 
throwing  his  hands  and  arms  wildly  to  and  fro,  articulating  many  times 
in  succession  certain  Bohemian  words  of  which  Consuelo  could  not 
comprehend  the  import. 

When  she  saw  that  he  did  not  attempt  to  molest  her,  she  recovered 
courage  to  l.ook  at  and  listen  to  him,  reproaching  herself  with  the 
dread  she  felt  of  his  natural  deformity  and  mental  affliction.  Then 
she  began  to  weave  a hundred  wild  fancies  concerning  the  cause  and 
nature  of  his  insanity,  and  concerning  the  contempt  and  hatred  of 
men  which  she  supposed  him  to  be  undergoing  while  under  the  espe- 
cial protection  of  Providence. 

The  idiot,  seeing  that  she  slackened  her  pace,  and  seeming  to  com- 
prehend the  gentleness  of  her  looks,  began  to  talk  to  her  in  Bohemian 
with  extreme  volubility,  and  in  a voice  the  softness  of  which  was 
strangely  contrasted  by  the  hideousness  of  his  appearance.  Not  com- 
prehending him  at  all,  Consuelo  thought  to  offer  him  alms,  and  drew 
a coin  from  her  pocket,  which  she  laid  on  a large  stone,  first  lifting  it 
on  high  that  he  might  see  it.  But  the  idiot  only  laughed  the  louden 
nibbing  his  hands,  and  crying  in  bad  German.  “ Useless ! useless' 
Zdenko  needs  it  not.  Zdmko  needs  nothing.  Zdenko  is  happy,  very 
happy.  Zdenko  has  consulation  1 consolation  I consolation  I ” Then, 
as  if  ne  suddenly  remembered  a word  which  he  had  long  been  seeking, 
ha  cried  out  with  delight,  and  quite  intelligibly,  though  very  ill  pro* 


c 0 NSUlll.  1ST 

noum  ed,  the  words,  “ Consuelo  I Consuelo  ! Conmiel • l Consuelo,  de 

mi  alma  II” 

Consuelo  stopped  short  in  astonishment,  and  addressing  him  in 
Spanish,  asked,  “ Wherefore  do  you  address  me  thus  ? Who  taught 

(on  that  name  ? How  came  you  to  understand  the  language  which 
speak  ? ” 

But  to  all  these  enquiries  Consuelo  awaited  a reply  in  vain,  for  the 
idiot  did  nothing  but  jump  about,  repeating  the  word  in  a hundred 
different  tones,  apparently  charmed  with  himself,  and  reiterating  it 
like  a bird  which  has  picked  up  some  articulate  word,  and  delights  to 
intermingle  it  with  its  natural  strains. 

As  she  returned  toward  the  castle,  Consuelo  mused  deeply  on  this 
odd  occurrence,  and  at  first  tried  to  remember  the  face  of*  the  idiot 
who  thus  recognized  and  named  her  at  first  sight,  as  one  of  the  Vene- 
tian vagabonds  and  beggars,  whom  she  had  been  wont  to  meet  on  the 
quays  and  on  the  place  of  St.  Mark ; but  though  many  recurred  easily 
to  her  recollection,  the  idiot  of  the  Stone  of  Terror  had  no  place 
among  them. 

But  as  she  crossed  over  the  Pont  Levis,  a more  logical-  aDd  far 
more  interesting  explanation  of  what  had  passed,  occurred  to  her. 
She  resolved  to  eplighten  herself  carefully  as  to  her  suspicions,  and 
went  so  far  even  as  to  congratulate  herself  that  her  expedition  had  not 
been  altogether  unsuccessful. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 

f W hen  she  again  found  herself  in  the  midst  of  that  melancholy 
and  dejected  family,  while  she  now  felt  both  hope  and  animation, 
she  began  to  reproach  herself  for  the  severity  with  which  she  had 
judged  these  worthy  and  afflicted  persons.  Count  Christian  and  the 
canoness  ate  not  a morsel  during  breakfast;  Amelia  was  in  desper- 
ately ill-humor,  and  the  chaplain  dared  not  indulge  his  unflagging 
appetite.  So  soon  as  they  rose  from  the  table,  the  count  stopped 
sadly  for  a moment  at  the  window,  gazed  out  upon  the  sandy  road, 
across  the  warren,  by  which  he  hoped  that  Albert  might  return 
homeward,  and  then  shook  his  head  sadly,  as  who  should  say,  “ Here 
is  another  day  ill  begun,  which  will  terminate  as  ill.” 

Consuelo  tried  to  divert  their  thoughts  by  playing  some  of  Por- 
pora’s  latest  religious  compositions,  to  which  they  ever  listened  with 
unfailing  interest  and  admiration.  It  grieved  her  to  feel  their  grief, 
and  yet  not  dare  inform  them  of  the  better  hopes  she  cherished. 
Buf;  when  she  saw  the  count  resume  his  book,  and  the  canoness  her 
needle — when  she  found  herself  called  upon  to  decide  whether  a cer- 
tain ornament  in  the  centre  of  the  embroidery  ought  to  have  white 
or  blue  points,  she  could  not  refrain  from  returning  in  her  thoughts 
to  Albert,  whom  she  fancied  dying  in  his  hideous  catalepsy  upon 
some  lonely  rock  in  the  forest,  or  perhaps  a prey  to  wolves  and  ser- 
pents, while  under  the  industrious  fingers  of  Wenceslawa  a thousand 
brilliant  flowers  were  glowing  on  the  tapestry,  watered  perchance  at 
intervals  by  a furtive  but  sterile  tear. 

As  soon  as  she  had  an  opportunity  of  questioning  Amelia,  who  was 


16b 


eOKIVILO, 


in  the  pouts,  she  inquired  of  her  who  was  the  strangely  dressed  foe 

who  roamed  the  country,  laughing  idiotically  at  all  whom  he  met 
- “ Oh  I it  is  Zdenko,”  replied  Amelia.  “ Have  you  not  met  him  be- 
fore in  your  rambles  ? One  is  certain  to  meet  him  sooner  or  later,  for 
he  has  no  settled  abode.” 

“ I saw  him  this  morning  for  the  first  time,  and  fancied  him  the 
spirit  of  the  Schreckenstein.” 

u Ah ! is  it  there  you  have  been  wandering  since  day-break.  I 
almost  begin  to  think  you  mad  yourself,  my  dear  Nina,  to  go  alone  at 
dawn  into  those  desert  spots,  where  you  might  well  meet  worn  cus- 
tomers than  an  inoffensive  idiot  such  as  Zdenko.” 

“ Some  hungry  wolf,  perhaps,”  said  Consuelo,  smiling,  “ But  I fan- 
cy that  your  father,  the  baron’s,  rifle  is  a safeguard  against  such  for  the 
whole  country.” 

“ I do  not  speak  of  wild  beasts  only,”  said  Amelia.  u The  country 
is  infested,  more  than  you  imagine,  with  the  most  dangerous  animals 
on  earth,  brigands  and  vagabonds.  Whole  tribes  of  families,  ruined 
in  the  wars,  roam  about,  demanding  alms  at  the  pistol’s  muzzle.  Be- 
sides which,  there  are  swarms  of  Egyptian  Zingari,  whom  the  French 
have  honored  us  by  calling  Bohemians,  as  if  they  were  aboriginal  na- 
tives of  our  mountains.  These  people,  rejected  on  all  sides,  and  cow- 
ardly enough  before  armea  men,  might  be  bold  enough  to  a hand- 
some young  girl,  like  you ; and  your  adventurous  walks  might  expose 
you  to  risks  which  should  not  be  lightly  encountered  by  a person  so 
reasonable  as  you  affect  to  be.” 

“ Dear  baroness,”  replied  Consuelo,  “ although  you  seem  to  think  so 
lightly  of  the  fangs  of  a wolf,  in  comparison  of  the  dangers  which,  as 
you  say,  threaten  me,  I confess  that  I should  fear  them  far  more  than 
the  Zingari.  They  are  old  acquaintances  of  mine,  and  I cannot  fancy 
how  one  should  fear  beings  so  weak,  so  poor,  and  so  persecuted.  On 
the  contrary,  I have  always  felt  that  I could  so  speak  to  those  people 
as  to  win  their  confidence,  for  if  they  be  ill  clad,  and  despised  on  all 
sides,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  avoid  feeling  a stong  interest  in  them.” 
“ Bravo ! my  dear,”  cried  Amelia,  with  increased  bitterness ; “ you 
have  got  so  far,  even,  as  Albert’s  fine  sentiments  in  behalf  of  beggars, 
bandits,  and  aliens;  nor  shall  I be  surprised  to  see  you,  like  him, 
leaning  some  fine  morning  on  the  frail  and  filthy  arm  of  Zdenko.” 
These  words  struck  Consuelo  like  a gleam  of  light,  and  she  asked 
with  a satisfaction  which  she  sought  not  to  conceal,  “ And  does  Count 
Albert  live  on  good  terms  with  Zdenko  ? ” 

“ He  is  his  most  familiar  and  intimate  friend,”  replied  Amelia,  scorn- 
fully. “ He  is  the  companion  of  his  walks,  the  sharer  of  all  his  secrets, 
the  messenger,  as  folks  say,  of  his  private  correspondences  with  the 
devil.  Zdenko  and  Albert  hold  conferences,  for  hours,  on  the  Stone 
of  Terror,  concerning  all  sorts  of  absurdities,  which  they  choose  to  call 
religion.  Albert  and  Zdenko  alone  blush  not  to  sit  down  on  the  grass 
with  the  Zingari,  who  halt  under  the  shadow  of  our  pine  trees,  and  to 
share  their  disgusting  meals  from  their  wooden  .trenchers.  They  call 
this  communicating — and  it  may  well  be  called  communicating,  in 
every  sense.  A desirable  husband,  truly,  my  cousin  Albert  would  be, 
who  should  grasp  in  his  hand,  lately  sullied  by  the  pestilential  touch  of 
the  Zingari,  the  fingers  of  his  betrothed^  and  raise  them  to  .ips  which 
have  drank  the  wine  of  the  chalice  from  the  same  cup  with  Zdenko.” 
“ This  may  be  all  vastly  witty,”  said  Corauelo;  u but  for  my  part,  ] 
do  not  understand  one  word  of  it” 


CON8UBIO, 


169 


* That  Is  because  you  have  no  taste  for  history,  and  have  not  listen- 
ed to  me,  when  I have  been  talking  myself  hoarse  in  telling  you  about 
the  riddles  and  mysterious  acts  of  my  cousin.  Have  I not  told  you 
how  the  great  quarrel  between  the  Hussites  and  the  Romanists  arose 
in  relation  to  the  two  aements — the  council  of  Bale  insisting  that  it 
was  a profanation  to  give  the  blood  of  our  Saviour  to  the  laity,  in  the 
element  of  wine,  alleging — a fine  argument,  indeed — that  as  both  his 
body  and  blood  are  contained  in  both  elements — who  eats  the  one 
drinks  the  other ! Do  you  understand  ? ” 

“ No.  Neither  did  the  council,  I think.  Logically,  they  might  have 
said  it  was  useless;  but  how  profanation,  if  to  eat  implies  drinking 
also?  ” 

Thereupon,  Amelia  entered  into  a long  discussion  on  the  tenets  of 
the  two  hostile  churches,  speaking  equally  in  ridicule  of  each ; con- 
demning the  luxury  of  the  Catholics,  and  the  fanaticism  of  the  Hus- 
sites, who  affected  to  use  wooden  cups  and  platters  at  communion, 
imitating  the  poverty  of  the  Apostles. 

“ This,”  she  pursued,  “ is  the  reason  why  Albert,  who  has  taken  it 
Into  his  head  to  be  a Hussite,  after  all  the  symbols  of  old  have  lost  all 
signification;  Albert,  who  affects  to  know  the  true  doctrine  of  John 
Huss  better  than  John  Huss  did  himself,  invents  all  sorts  of  commun- 
ions, and  goes  about  communicating,  as  he  calls  it,  on  the  high  road, 
with  beggars,  idiots,  and  even  heathens.  For  it  was  a mania  with  the 
Hussites  to  communicate  in  all  places,  at  all  times,  and  with  every- 
oody.” 

“ All  this  is  fantastical  enough,”  said  Consuelo,  and  I can  only  as- 
cribe it  to  an  exalted  patriotism,  carried,  I must  admit,  to  delirium  in 
Count  Albert.  There  may  be  a deep  meaning  in  the  thought,  but  the 
formula  are  childish  for  a man  so  serious  and  learned.  The  true  com- 
munion should  rather  be  charity.  For  what  can  avail  the  empty  cere- 
monies of  the  past,  which  can,  by  no  possibility  comprise  the  person* 
with  whom  he  associates  ? ” 

“ As  for  charity,  Albert  in  no  wise  lacks  that.  If  he  were  left  to  him- 
self, he  would  strip  himself  of  everything ; and,  for  my  part,  I wish 
they  would  let  him  scatter  all  he  possesses  into  the  hands  of  vaga- 
bonds.” 

“ And  wherefore  ? ” 

“ Because,  then  my  father  would  give  up  the  idea  of  enriching  me 
by  marrying  me  to  this  demoniac:  for  you  must  know  that  they  have 
not  given  up  this  precious  idea,  and  during  the  last  few  days,  during 
which  my  cousin  showed  a glimpse  of  reason,  attacked  me  on  that  head 
more  strenuously  than  ever.  We  had  a sharp  quarrel,  the  result  of 
which  seems  to  be  that  my  father  is  about  to  endeavor  to  reduce  me, 
as  they  do  castles,  by  blockade.  If  I yield,  therefore,  you  see  I shall 
be  married  to  him,  in  spite  of  myself,  of  him,  and  of  yet  a third  person, 
who  affects  not  to  care  a particle  about  it.” 

w Here  we  are  again,  eh  ? ” said  Consuelo,  laughing,  M I expected 
some  such  sarcasm  as  that,  and  I see  clearly  that  you  have  only  done 
me  the  honor  of  conversing  with  me  this  morning,  in  order  to  arrive 
at  it.  I am  glad  to  see  it,  however,  for  in  this  little  comedy  of  jealousy, 
I discover  a remnant  of  affection  for  Count  Albert,  which  you  will  not 
confess.” 

“Nina!”  exclaimed  the  young  baroness, energetically,  “if  you  think 
you  see  that,  you  lack  penetration.  If  you  rejoice  at  it,  you  lack  T& 
P*  for  me.  I am  v'olent  and  proud,  but  l knew  net  hew  te  die 


170 


CONSUELO, 


semble.  I have  told  you  that  Albert’s  preference  for  you  enrages  me 
against  him,  not  against  you.  It  wounds  my  self-pride,  and  yet  flat* 
ters  my  hopes  and  gratifies  my  wishes.  I now  only  desire  him  to  com* 
mit  some  notorious  lblly  for  you,  which  may  rid  me  of  all  half  meaa* 
tires,  by  justifying  the  aversion  against  which  I have  so  long  striven, 
but  which  I now  feel  towards'  him,  unmixed  with  love  or  pity.” 

M God  grant,”  cried  Consuelo,  w that  this  be  the  language,  not  of 
truth,  but  of  passion ; for  it  would  be  a very  harsh  truth  in  the  hands 
of  a very  unfeeling  person.” 

The  bitterness  which  Amelia  had  shown  during  this  conversation 
did  not  greatly  affect  Consuelo’s  generous  spirit.  She  now  thought 
only  of  her  enterprise,  and  the  dream  which  she  cherished  of  restor- 
ing Albert  to  his  family,  cast  a sort  of  pleasure  over  the  monotony  of 
her  occupations.  It  was  necessary,  however,  that  she  should  occupy 
herself,  in  order  to  guard  against  the  ennui  which  was  growing  upon 
her,  and  which,  as  it  had  been  the  disease  most  unknown  to  her  ac- 
tive and  laborious  life,  was  that  most  painful  to  her.  She  had  no  re- 
source,  then,  but,  after  giving  Amelia  a long  and  fastidious  lesson,  but 
to  practice  her  own  voice,  and  to  study  the  ancient  masters ; but  even 
this  occupation,  which  as  yet  had  never  failed  her,  was  now  denied; 
for  Amelia,  with  her  idle  curiosity,  persisted  in  coming,  interrupting 
and  annoying  her  every  fiv£  minutes,  with  childish  questions  and  un- 
meaning observations.  The  rest  of  the  family  were  horribly  out  of 
spirits,  for  already  five  mortal  days  had  passed,  since  the  disappearance 
of  the  young  count,  and  every  fresh  day  added  to  the  consternation 
and  dejection  of  the  last. 

That  same  afternoon,  while  Consuelo  was  strolling  in  the  garden* 
with  Amelia,  she  saw  Zdenko  on  the  farther  side  of  the  moat,  which 
divided  them  from  the  open  country.  He  was  busy  talking  to  himself, 
in  a tone  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  relating  a story. 
Consuelo  stopped  her  companion,  and  begged  her  to  translate  the 
words  of  this  strange  being. 

“ How  can  I translate  rhapsodies,  without  connection  or  meaning  ? ” 
returned  Amelia,  shrugging  up  her  shoulders.  “ He  is  muttering 
thus,  if  you  care  to  hear  it: 

44  4 There  was  once  a great  mountain,  all  white,  all  white ; and  hard 
by  it  a great  mountain,  all.  black,  all  black;  and  hard  by  it  a great 
mountain,  all  red,  all  red.’  Hoes  this  interest  you  much  ? ” 

44  Perhaps  it  would,  if  I but  knew  the  end.  Oh ! how  I do  wish  I 
understood  Bohemian.  I will  learn  it.” 

“It  is  not  quite  so  easy  to  learn  as  Italian  or  Spanish;  still, 
you  are  so  industrious,  that  you  will  soon  master  it,  if  you  set  to 
work.  I will  teach  you,  if  it  will  give  you  any  pleasure. 

“ You  will  be  an  angel  to  do  so,  provided  always  that  you  are  more 
patient  as  a mistress  than  as  a pupil.  And  now  what  is  Zdenko 
saying  ? ” 

“ Now  the  mountains  are  conversing,  4 Wherefore,  O red  moun- 
tain, all  red,  hast  thou  crushed  the  mountain  all  black  ? And  thou 
white  mountain,  all  white,  wherefore  hast  thou  suffered  the  black 
mountain,  all  black,  to  be  crushed?  ’ 

Here  Zdenko  began  to  sing  with  a shrill  and  broken  voice,  but  so 
sweetly  and  truly,  that  Conmelo  felt  her  heart  thrill  to  the  core. 
His  song  proceeded : 

44  Black  mountains  and  wk  te  mountains,  then,  will  need  muck 
water,  much  water,  to  bleach  your  garments — ” 


CQKBUELO, 


m 

* Yonr  garments  black  with  crime,  and  white  with  idleness  -yotu 
gwments  soiled  with  falsehood,  your  garments  glittering  with  pride. 

"Now  they  are  both  bleached,  well  bleached.  Your  garments 
which  would  not  change  their  hues — behold!  they  are  worn,  much 
worn,  your  garments  which  would  not  sweep  the  dust. 

" Lo ! all  the  mountains  are  red,  all  red.  These  will  need  all  the 
waters  of  heaven,  all  the  waters  of  heaven  to  bleach  them  clean.” 

“ Is  this  improvised,  or  is  it  an  old  national  song  ? ” added  Consuelo. 
u Who  can  tell  ? Zdenko  is  either  an  inexhaustible  improvisateur 
or  a most  leai  ~.pd  rhapsodist.  Our  peasants  delight  to  hear  him,  re- 
spect him  as  a saint,  and  regard  his  insanity  as  a gift  rather  than  as  a 
misfortune  from  the  hand  of  heaven.  They  feed  and  cherish  him, 
and  if  he  would,  he  might  be  the  best  clad  and  best  lodged  man  in  the 
country,  for  every  one  strives  for  the  pleasure  and  advantage  of  being 
his  host.  He  is  regarded  as  a luck-bearer,  as  a good  omen.  When  a 
storm  threatens,  Zdenko  says,  ‘ It  is  nothing ; the  hail  will  not  fall 
here ! y If  the  harvest  is  bad,  they  entreat  Zdenko  to  sing,  and  as  he 
always  promises  years  of  fertility  and  increase,  they  console  them- 
selves for  the  present,  expecting  a better  future.  But  Zdenko  will 
abide  nowhere.  His  vagabond  nature  leads  him  away  into  the  depths 
of  forests.  No  one  knows  where  he  sleeps  of  nights,  or  where  he 
shelters  himself  from  storm  or  tempest.  Never,  in  ten  years,  has  he 
been  seen  to  pass  beneath  any  roof  but  that  of  the  Giant’s  Castle,  for 
he  pretends  that  his  ancestors  are  in  all  the  other  houses  of  the  coun- 
try, and  that  he  is  forbidden  to  appear  before  them.  Nevertheless,  he 
follows  Albert  to  his  chamber,  for  to  him  he  is  as  faithful  and  obedient 
as  his  dog  Cynabre.  Albert  is  the  only  being  who  controls  at  his 
pleasure  the  wild  independence  of  his  nature,  and  who  can  bid  cease 
at  a word  his  unflagging  gaiety,  his  eternal  songs,  and  unwearied  bab- 
ble. Zdenko,  they  say,  had  once  a very  fine  voice,  but  he  has  ex- 
hausted it  by  singing,  chattering,  and  laughing.  He  is  scarcely  older 
than  Albert,  though  he  looks  like  a man  of  fifty.  They  have  been 
comrades  from  childhood.  At  that  time  Zdenko  was  but  half  an 
idiot.  Descended  from  an  ancient  family — one  of  his  ancestors  hav- 
ing figured  in  the  Hussite  wars — he  had  enough  memory  and  quick- 
ness to  be  destined  by  his  parents  to  the  cloister.  For  a long  time,  he 
wore  the  garb  of  a mendicant  novice,  but  when  he  was  sent  out  with 
the  ass  and  wallet,  accompanied  by  a brother,  to  seek  gifts  from  the 
charitable,  he  absconded  into  the  woods,  leaving  ass,  friar,  and  wallet, 
and  was  not  seen  for  many  a day.  When  Albert  went  abroad,  he  fell 
into  deep  melancholy,  cast  his  frock  to  the  winds,  and  became  entirely 
a vagabond.  By  degrees . his  melancholy  passed  away,  but  although 
his  gaiety  returned,  the  gleams  of  reason  which  had  previously  shone 
out  through  the  oddities  of  his  character,  became  entirely  extinct. 
He  talks  no  longer,  except  incoherently,  displays  all  sorts  of  strange 
manias,  and  is  really  quite  mad ; but  as  he  is  always  sober,  peaceful, 
and  inoffensive,  and  may  be  rather  looked  on  as  an  idiot  than  as  a 
madman,  our  peasantry  call  him  the  innocent,  and  no  more.” 

"All  that  you  tell  me  of  the  poor  creature,”  said  Consuelo,  "only 
the  more  awakens  my  sympathies  in  his  behalf.  I wish  I could  talk 
to  him.  Does  he  speak  German  at  all  ? ” 

" He  understands,  and  can  speak  it  better,  or  worse,  but  like  al1 
Bohemian  peasants,  he  detests  the  language ; and  being  always  busied 
In  reveries,  as  he  is  now,  it  is  more  than  doubtful  if  he  will  listen  ta 
whan  you  address  him.” 


1T2 


COHSTJKLO, 


“ Try  to  speak  to  him  *n  his  own  language,  and  attract  Lis  att mat 
tlon  to  us,”  said  Con3uelo. 

Amelia  called  several  times  to  Zdenko,  asking  liim  In  Bohemian  if 
he  was  well,  and  if  ha  wished  for  anything,  but  she  could  not  make 
him  lift  his  head,  or  intermit  a game  which  he  was  playing  with  three 
pebbles,  one  black,  one  white,  and  one  red,  throwing  them  one  at  the 
other,  and  laughing  when  any  fell. 

“ You  see  it  is  in  vain,”  said  Amelia.  " When  he  is  not  hungry  he 
never  speaks  to  us,  unless  he  is  in  search  of  Albert.  In  either  of 
these  cases  he  comes  to  the  castle  gate,  and  if  he  is  only  hus^ry  he 
stands  still  on  the  threshold.  Whatever  he  wants  is  given  to  him ; he 
returns  thanks,  and  goes  his  way.  If  he  wishes  to  see  Albert  he  en- 
ters, and  goes  and  knocks  at  his  chamber  door,  which  is  never  closed 
against  him,  and  there  he  remains,  silent  and  docile  as  a timid  child, 
if  Albert  is  studying;  full  of  clatter  and  mirth,  if  Albert  is  inclined 
to  listen  to  him ; never  troublesome,  as  it  appears,  to  my  charming 
cousin,  and  happier  in  that  respect  than  any  member  of  the  family.” 

“ And  when  Count  Albert  becomes  invisible,  as  at  present,  does 
Zdenko,  who  loves  him  so  dearly,  and  who  so  deplored  his  absence 
when  abroad,  manifest  no  uneasiness?  ” 

“None.  He  says  that  Albert  has  gone  to  see  the  Almighty,  and. 
that  he  will  bring  him  back  when  he  pleases.  That  was  what  he  said 
while  Albert  was  travelling.” 

“ And  do  you  not  suspect,  dear  Amelia,  that  Zdenko  may  have  bet- 
ter reasons  than  any  of  you  for  his  security?  Has  it  never  struck 
you  that  he  may  be  in  Albert’s  secret,  and  may  watch  over  him  while 
in  his  lethargic  or  delirious  state  ? ” 

“We  once  thought  so,  and  long  watched  his  movements,  but,  like 
his  patron  Albert,  he  cannot  endure  supervision,  and  more  cunning 
than  a fox,  he  eludes  all  vigilance,  outwits  all  stratagems,  and  has,  it 
is  said,  like  Albert,  the  power  of  rendering  himself  invisible  when  he 
pleases.  He  has  sometimes  disappeared  as  suddenly  from  eyes  rivet- 
ed upon  him,  as  if  he  had  dived  into  the  earth,  or  been  swallowed  in 
a cloud.  At  least,  so  says  my  aunt  Wenceslawa,  who,  for  all  he* 
piety,  has  not  the  strongest  head  in  the  world  as  regards  diabolical 
influences.” 

“ But  you,  my  dear  baroness,  cannot  credit  these  absurdities  ? ” 
“No.  But  I agree  with  my  uncle  Christian,  in  thinking  that  if 
Albert,  in  his  mysterious  disappearances,  has  no  aid  but  that  of  this 
vagabond,  it  would  be  very  dangerous  to  deprive  him  of  it,  of  which 
there  is  much  risk,  by  watching  Zdenko,  and  annoying  him  in  his  ma- 
noeuvres. But  for  heaven’s  sake,  dear  Nina,  let  us  turn  to  some  other 
subject.  We  have  had  enough  on  this  chapter,  for  I do  not  feel  the 
same  interest  with  you  in  this  idiot.  I am  wearied  of  his  endless  ro- 
mances and  songs,  and  his  broken  voice  gives  me  a sore  throat.” 

“ I wonder,”  said  Consuelo,  following  her  companion,  “ that  his 
voice  has  no  charm  for  your  ears,  for  all  broken  as  it  is,  on  me  it  has 
a more  powerful  effect  than  that  of  the  finest  singers.” 

“ That  is  because  you  are  bla**i  with  fine  singing,  and  love  novel  * 
ty.” 

“ The  language  which  he  sings  is  peculiarly  melodious,”  replied 
Consuelo,  “ and  the  monotony  of  his  tones  is  not  what  you  think  it 
The  ideas  are,  on  the  contrary  very  sweet  and  original.” 

“ For  my  part,  I am  weary  to  death  of  them,”  answered  Amelia. 
At  int  I took  some  interest  in  them,  thinking,  with  the  people  of 


COJISUXL0. 


ITS 

the  country,  that  thsy  might  be  old  national  songs,  curious  in  an  hi* 
toxical  connection,  but  as  he  never  repeats  them  twice  alike,  I am  sat- 
isfied that  he  improvises  them,  and  at  a hearing  or  two  I was  satisfied 
that  they  were  not  worth  listening  to,  although  our  mountaineers 
find  in  them  at  their  will  a symbolical  meaning.” 

As  soon  as  Consuelo  could  rid  herself  of  Amelia,  she  ran  back  to 
the  garden,  where  she  found  Zdenko  still  playing  as  before,  on  the 
outer  side  of  the  moat.  Being  now  assured  that  this  wretched  being 
had  relations  of  some  kind  with  Albert,  she  had  secretly  provided  her- 
self with  a cake  of  the  canoness*  making,  which  she  had  observed 
that  Albert  preferred,  and  wrapping  it  in  a white  handkerchief,  which 
she  wished  to  throw  across  the  moat  to  Zdenko,  she  took  the  chance 
of  calling  him  by  name.  But  he  took  no  notice  of  her.  Then, 
remembering  the  eagerness  with  which  he  had  repeated  her  own 
name,  she  repeated  it  in  German,  but  he  was  in  a melancholy  mood, 
and  without  looking  at  her  he  only  repeated,  in  German,  “ Consola- 
tion ! Consolation  1 ” as  who  should  say,  “ for  me  there  is  no  consola- 
tion” 

Then,  desirous  of  seeing  if  her  name  in  Spanish  would  produce  the 
same  effect  it  had  in  the  morning,  she  said,  “ Consuelo.” 

On  the  instant  Zdenko  left  his  pebbles,  and  began  jumping  and 
gesticulating  on  the  edge  of  the  moat,  waving  his  bonnet  over  his 
head,  stretching  his  arms  toward  her,  with  very  animated  Bohemian 
words,  and  a face  beaming  with  pleasure. 

“ Albert ! ” cried  Consuelo,  and  threw  the  cake  to  him. 

Zdenko  picked  it  up,  laughing,  and  without  unfolding  the  handker- 
chief; but  he  said  many  things  which  Consuelo  was  in  despair  at  not 
being  able  to  understand.  She  listened  attentively,  and  succeeded  in 
catching  one  phrase  which  he  repeated  many  times,  always  bowing  as 
he  uttered  it.  Her  musical  ear  enabled  her  to  seize  the  exact  pro- 
nunciation, and  as  soon  as  Zdenko  was  gone,  for  he  took  to  his  heels 
at  full  speed,  she  wrote  it  in  her  pocket-book,  spelling  it  in  Venetian, 
with  the  intent  to  learn  its  meaning  from  Amelia,  But  before  she 
left  Zdenko,  being  desirious  of  giving  him  something  which  should 
denote  more  delicately  the  interest  she  took  in  Albert,  she  recalled 
the  innocent,  and  as  he  returned,  obedient  to  her  voice,  she  threw 
him  a bouquet,  which  she  had  gathered  an  hour  before  in  the  hot- 
house, and  which  still  remained  fresh  &hd  perfumed  at  her  belt. 
Zdenko  picked  it  up,  repeated  his  salutation,  his  exclamations,  and 
his  bounds,  and  then,  plunging  into  the  brushwood,  through  which 
one  could  have  supposed  that  a hare  only  could  make  its  way,  disap- 
peared altogether.  For  a few  moments  Consuelo  watched  his  rapid 
flight  with  all  her  eyes,  judging  that  he  was  going  to  the  south-eastward 
by  the  agitation  of  the  top  of  the  bushes.  But  a slight  breeze  soon  set 
her  observation  at  nought,  by  shaking  equally  the  tops  of  all  the  cop- 
pice, and  Consuelo  returned  to  the  castle,  more  set  than  ever  to  p w 
•arert  in  her  determinate  a. 


1T4 


tOttltf  lift. 


CHAPTER  XXXYIL 

Wktek  Amelia  was  asked  to  interpret  what  Consnelo  had  written  on 
her  tablets  and  engraved  in  her  memory,  she  said  she  knew  nothing 
about  the  matter,  though  she  was  able  to  translate  literally  these 
words: 

“ Let  the  person  you  have  injured  salute  you.” 

“ Perhaps,”  said  she,  “ he  wishes  to  speak  of  Albert  or  of  himself, 
saying  that  an  injury  has  been  done  them,  by  taxing  them  with  mad- 
ness. You  must  know  they  think  themselves  the  only  two  reasonable 
men  alive.  Why,  though,  look  for  sense  in  the  conversation  of  a 
madman?  This  Zdenko  occupies  more  of  your  thoughts  than  you 
think.” 

“ The  people  everywhere,”  said  Consuelo,  “ attribute  to  madmen  a 
kind  of  intelligence  altogether  superior  to  that  perceived  by  colder 
minds.  I have  a right  to  preserve  the  prejudices  of  my  class,  and  I 
cannot  think  a madman  speaks  ad  libitum , when  he  utters  things 
which  seem  to  us  unintelligible.” 

“ Let  us  see,”  said  Amelia,  “ if  the  chaplain,  who  is  well  versed  In 
all  the  formidable  formulas  of  the  old  world  lore  our  parents  are 
familiar  with,  is  acquainted  with  this.”  Going  to  the  good  man,  she 
asked  him  to  translate  the  phrase  of  Zdenko. 

These  obscure  words,  however,  seemed  to  cast  a terrible  light  into 
the  chaplain’s  heart  “ Living  God ! ” said  he,  “ was  such  a blaspho* 
my  ever  heard  I ” 

“If  there  ever  was,”  said  Amelia,  “I  cannot  conceive  what  it  is. 
For  that  reason  I asked  you  to  translate  it.” 

“ Word  for  word  in  good  German  it  means  * let  the  person  you  have 
injured  save  you.’  If  though,  you  wish  to  know  the  meaning  loud, 
(I  dare  scarcely  to  pronounce  it,) — the  meaning  is— ‘ Let  the  devil  be 
with  you  1 ’ ” 

“In  plain  language,”  said  Amelia,  “it  means,  4 Go  to  the  devil.' 
Well,  that  is  a pretty  compliment,  and  this  is  all  we  make,  dear  Kina, 
by  talking  to  fools.  You  did  not  think  that  Zdenko,  with  his  affable 
smile  and  pleasant  grimaces,  played  so  ungallant  a part  with  you  ? ” 

“Zdenko?”  said  the  chaplain.  “Ah!  none  but  an  idiot  speaks 
thus.  Very  well:  I was  afraid  it  was  some  one  else — I was  wrong. 
Such  a series  of  abominations  could  only  come  from  a head  filled  up 
with  old  heresy.  Whence  did  he  obtain  a knowledge  of  things  either 
unknown  now  or  forgotten  ? The  Spirit  of  Evil  alone  can  suggest  ft 
to  him.” 

“ Bah!  that  is  nothing  but  a simple  asseveration  used  by  the  popu- 
lace in  every  country.  The  Catholics  are  no  worse  than  others.” 

“ Think  not  so,  baroness,”  said  the  chaplain.  “ This  is  not  a male- 
diction in  the  understanding  of  him  who  uses  it.  On  the  contrary,  it 
is  a benediction — in  that  consists  the  crime.  This  is  an  abomination 
of  the  Lollards,  a detestable  sect  which  begot  the  Vaidois,  from  whdm 
come  the  Hussites.” 

“ And  they  will  beget  many  others,”  said  Amelia,  gravely,  as  if  she 
wished  to  laugh  at  the  good  priest.  “Let  us  see,  though,  father. 
How  can  one  gain  another’s  thanks  by  recommending  his  neighbor 
to  the  Devil?” 

6 The  reason  is,  that,  as  the  Lollards  think,  Satan  was  net  the  mu* 


S tJK  L O, 


176 


my  of  humanity,  *ut  on  the  contrary,  its  protector  and  patron.  They 
said  he  was  the  victim  of  injustice  and  jealousy.  As  they  thin*,  the 
archangel  Michael  and  the  other  celestial  powers  who  precipitated 
him  into  darkness  were  true  devils,  while  Lucifer,  Beelzebub,  Asta- 
roth,  Astarte,  and  the  monsters  of  hell,  were  innocence  itself.  They 
thought  the  reign  of  Michael  and  his  glorious  army  soon  would  end, 
and  that  the  devil  and  his  phalanxes  would  be  restored.  They  also 
paid  him  an  impious  worship,  and  when  they  met,  said.  * May  the 
oue  who  has  been  wronged  salute  you/  that  is  to  say  ‘ salute  and 
assist  you/  ” 

“ Well,”  said  Amelia,  laughing  loud,  “ Nina  is  under  the  most  flavor 
able  auspices.  I shall  not  be  amazed  if  we  should  have  to  use  exon* 
cisms  to  destroy  the  effects  of  Zdenko’s  incantations.” 

“ Consuelo  was  amused  by  this  sport.  She  was  not  very  sure  that 
the  devil  was  a chimera  and  hell  a poetic  fable.  She  would  have  been 
inclined  to  think  that  the  indignation  and  terror  of  the  chaplain  was 
serious,  had  not  the  latter,  offended  by  Amelia’s  scoffs,  been  perfectly 
ridiculous.  Amazed,  troubled  in  all  her  childish  opinions  by  the  scene 
of  strife  into  which  she  had  been  cast,  between  credulity  and  *ipersti- 
tion,  Consuelo  had  not  a little  trouble  in  saying  her  prayers.  She 
passed  in  review  all  forms  of  worship  which  she  had  hitherto  received 
blindly,  but  which  no  longer  satisfied  her.  As  far  as  I can  see,  there 
are  two  kinds  of  devotion  at  Venice.  That  of  the  convents  and  of  the 
populace,  and  that  of  the  people,  which  perhaps  goes  too  far;  for 
under  the  guise  of  religion  it  receives  all  kinds  of  superstitious  acces- 
sories, the  Obco,  (the  devil  of  the  Lagunes,)  the  sorceries  of  Malam- 
occo,  the  search  after  gold,  the  horoscope  and  vows  to  the  saints  foi 
the  success  of  the  most  impious  wishes.  There  is  also  that  of  the 
fashionable  world  and  of  the  higher  clergy,  which  is  but  a mere  type. 
They  go  to  church  as  they  do  to  the  theatre,  to  hear  music  and  tc 
show  themselves,  laughing  at  everything,  even  at  religion,  thinking 
nothing  is  serious  or  exerts  an  influence  over  their  conscience — that 
form  and  custom  are  everything.  Consuelo  continued  to  think  of 
these  things,  to  express  her  regret  that  Anzoleto  was  not  religiously 
inclined ; that  Porpora  had  faith  in  nothing.  She  was  herself  in  the 
greatest  trouble,  and  said,  “ For  what  shall  I toil  ? Why  shall  I be 
pitiful,  brave  or  generous,  who  am  alone  in  the  world,  unless  there  be 
a Supreme  Being,  intelligent  and  full  of  love?  who  judges  not,  bu'. 
approves  and  aids  me?  who  also  blesses  me.  What  power,  what  in- 
toxication do  they  infuse  into  life,  who  can  pass  from  hope  and  love 
above  all  the  vicissitudes  and  all  the  illusions  of  life  ? 

“ Supreme  Being ! ” cried  she  in  her  heart,  forgetting  the  accustom- 
ed form  of  her  prayer,  “ teach  me  what  I ought  to  do.  Infinite 
Love ! teach  me  what  I ought  to  love.  Infinite  Wisdom  I teach  me 
what  I ought  to  believe.” 

While  thus  praying  and  meditating,  she  forgot  the  flight  of  time 
and  it  was  past  midnight  when  before  retiring  to  bed  she  cast  a glance 
over  the  landscape  now  lighted  by  the  moon’s  pale  beams.  The  view 
from  her  window  was  not  very  extensive,  owing  to  the  surrounding 
mountains,  but  exceedingly  picturesque.  A narrow  and  winding  val- 
ley, in  the  centre  of  which  sparkled  a mountain  stream,  lay  before 
her,  its  meadows  gently  undulating  until  they  reached  the  base  of  the 
surrounding  hills,  which  shut  in  the  horizon,  except  where  at  inter- 
val! they  opened  to  permit  the  eye  to  discover  still  more  distant  and 
eteeper  ranges,  clothed  to  the  very  summit  with  dark  green  firs.  The 


1T6 


GOKStJSLO' 


tat  rays  of  the  sotting  m >on  shone  full  on  the  principal  features  of 
this  sombre  but  striking  landscape,  to  which  the  dark  foliage  of  ths 
evergreens,  the  pent-up  water,  and  the  ro?ks  covered  with  moss  and 
iVy,  imparted  a stem  and  savage  aspect. 

While  Consuelo  was  comparing  this  country  with  those  she  had 
travelled  through  in  her  childhood,  she  was  struck  with  an  idea  she 
bad  not  known  before.  It  seemed  that  what  passed  before  her  was 
not  entirely  new,  either  because  she  had  been  in  Bohemia  or  in  some 
very  similar  place.  “ My  mother  and  myself,”  said  she,  “ travelled  so 
much,  that  it  would  not  be  at  all  surprising  had  I ever  been  here ; and 
often  I have  a distinct  idea  of  Dresden  and  Vienna.  We  may  have 
passed  through  Bohemia  to  go  to  one  or  the  other  of  those  capitals. 

1 1 would  be  strange,  however,  if  we  had  received  hospitality  in  some 
barn  where  I am  now  welcomed  as  a lady ; or  if  we  earned  by  our 
songs  a piece  of  bread  at  the  door  of  some  hut  where  Zdenko  now 
sings  his  old  songs.  Zdenko,  the  wandering  artist,  is  my  equal, 
though  he  does  not  seem  to  be.” 

Just  then  her  eyes  fell  on  the  Schreckenstein,  the  brow  of  which 
she  saw  above  a nearer  peak,  and  it  seemed  to  her  to  be  crowned  with 
a ruddy  color,  which  feebly  changed  the  transparent  blue  of  heaven. 
She  looked  closely  at  it,  and  saw  it  become  more  indistinct,  disappear, 
and  come  again,  until  it  was  so  distinct  that  it  could  not  be  an  illusion 
of  the  senses.  Whether  this  was  but  the  passing  abode  of  a band  of 
Zingari,  the  haunt  of  some  brigands,  or  not,  it  was  very  evident  that 
the  Schreckenstein  was  now  occupied  by  living  beings;  ard  Consuelo 
after  her  fervent  prayer  to  Almighty  God,  was  no  longer  disposed  to 
believe  in  the  stranger  beings  with  which  popular  tradition  peopled 
the  mountain.  Did  not  Zdenko  kindle  the  fire  to  ward  off  the  chill 
of  the  night?  If  Zdenko  was  there,  was  not  that  fire  kin* lied  for  Al- 
bert’s sake?  This  light  had  often  been  seen  on  the  m ■ Britain,  and 
all  spoke  of  it  with  terror,  attributing  it  to  some  super  naturalism- 
It  had  a thousand  times  been  said  that  it  came  fr  ^ lie  enchanted 
trunk  of  Ziska’s  tree.  The  Hussite,  however,  no  - r existed ; at 
all  events  he  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine,  and  W red  light  now 
burned  on  the  top  of  the  mountain.  Whkher  could  this  mysterious 
light  call  her,  if  not  to  Albert’s  retreat? 

“ Oh,  apathy  of  immortal  souls,”  said  Consuelo,  “ you  are  a blessing 
of  God  or  an  infirmity  of  incomplete  natures.”  She  asked  herself 
if  she  would  have  courage  to  go  alone,  and  her  heart  replied  that  for 
a charitable  purpose  she  certainly  would.  She  was,  however,  flatter- 
ing herself  perfectly  gratuitously  in  this  respect,  for  the  severe  disci- 
pline of  the  castle  left  her  no  chance  of  egress. 

At  dawn  she  awoke,  full  of  zeal,  and  hurried  to  the  mountain.  All 
was  silent  and  deserted,  and  the  grass  around  the  Rock  of  Terror 
•eemed  undisturbed.  There  were  no  traces  of  fire,  and  no  evidence 
that  any  one  had  been  there  on  the  night  before.  She  examined  the 
whole  mountain,  but  found  nothing.  She  called  for  Zdenko,  whis- 
tled to  arouse  the  barking  of  Cynabre,  called  him  again  and  again. 
She  called  “ Consolation  ” in  every  tongue  she  knew,  and  sung  severe, 
verses  of  her  Spanish  song,  and  even  some  of  the  Bohemian  airs  of 
Zdenko,  which  she  remembered  perfectly.  She  heard  no  reply.  The 
moss  rustled  beneath  her  feet,  and  the  murmur  of  mysterious  water* 
beneath  the  rocks  alone  broke  on  her  ear. 

Exhausted  by  this  useless  search,  she  was  after  a few  moments’  rest 
about  to  retire,  when  she  saw  at  her  feet  a pale  and  withered  rose-lea£' 


CONSUELO. 


177 


She  picked  it  tip,  enfolded  it,  and  became  satisfied  that  it  could  not 
but  be  a leaf  of  a bouquet  she  had  thrown  to  Zdenko.  The  mountain 
produced  none  but  wild  roses,  and  besides,  this  was  not  the  season  ol 
their  bloom.  This  faint  index  consoled  her  for  all  her  fatigue  and  the 
apparent  uselessness  of  her  walk,  persuading  her  fully  that  she  must 
expect  to  meet  Albert  at  the  Schreckenstein. 

In  what  impenetrable  cavern  of  the  mountain  though  was  he  con- 
cealed ? He  either  was  not  there  all  the  time,  or  now  had  some  vio- 
lent cataleptic  attack.  Perhaps  Consuelo  was  mistaken  in  thinking 
her  voice  had  any  power  over  him,  and  his  delight  at  seeing  her  was 
but  an  access  of  madness,  which  had  left  no  trace  in  his  memory. 
He  now,  perhaps,  heard  and  sasw  her,  laughed  at  her  efforts  and  her 
useless  advances. 

At  this  idea  Consuelo  felt  her  cheeks  flush,  and  she  left  the  moun- 
tain at  once  with  a determination  never  to  return  thither.  She  left 
behind  her,  though,  the  basket  of  fruits  she  had  brought  with  her. 

On  the  next  day,  she  found  the  basket  in  the  same  place,  perfectly 
untouched,  and  even  the  leaves  which  covered  it  were  umhsturb(*L 
Her  offering  had  been  even  disdained,  or  Albert  and  Zdenko  had  not 
passed  it.  Yet  the  red  light  of  the  pine-wood  fire  had  burnt  all 
night  on  the  mountain  brow. 

Consuelo  watched  until  dawn  to  ascertain  this.  She  had  mor* 
than  once  seen  the  light  grow  bright  and  dim,  as  if  a careful  han* 
attended  it.  NTo  one  had  seen  Trlngv  i in  the  vicinity.  strangei 
had  been  observed  on  the  outskirts  of  the  ^rest,  and  a 7.  the  peasants 
Consuelo  examined  in  relation  to  the  S*t^ae  of  Terror  col  \ ner  in  bad 
German,  that  it  was  not  right  to  inquire  into  such  tMugs,  for  that 
people  should  not  look  into  the  affairs  of  the  other  world. 

Albert,  then,  had  not  been  seen  for  nine  days.  Hj  had  not  been 
absent  so  long  before,  and  this  fact,  added  to  the  unlucky  presages  in 
relation  to  his  thirtieth  year,  were  not  calculated  to  revive  the  hopes 
of  his  family.  They  began  to  be  uneasy,  and  Ceunt  Christian  began 
to  sigh  in  a most  unhappy  manner.  The  baron  went  out  shooting 
but  killed  nothing,  and  the  chaplain  made  the  most  extraordinary 
prayers.  Amelia  neither  laughed  nor  sung ; and  her  aunt,  pale  and 
feeble,  neglected  her  domestic  cares,  telling  her  chaplet  trom  morning 
till  night.  She  seemed  bent  a foot  more  than  usual. 

Consuelo  ventured  to  propose  a scrupulous  and  careful  wploration 
of  the  mountain,  confessed  the  examination  she  had  made  herself,  and 
confided  to  the  canoness  the  circumstance  of  the  rose-leaf  and  the 
careful  manner  in  which  she  had  examined  the  surface  of  the  moun- 
tain. The  arrangements  Wenceslawa  made  for  the  exploration  sooo 
induced  Consuelo  to  repent  of  her  confidence.  The  canoness  insist^ 
on  securing  Zdenko’s  person,  or  terrifying  him,  and  on  sending  o\d 
fifty  men  with  torches  and  guns.  She  also  wished  the  chaplain  >c 
pronounce  an  exorcism  over  the  fatal  stone,  while  the  baron,  accompa 
nied  by  Hans  and  his  most  faithful  companions,  besieged  the  mouu'tata, 

This  was  the  very  way  to  make  Albert  staring  mad,  and  by 
of  prayer  and  persuasion,  Consuelo  induced  Wenceslawa  to  under 
take  nothing  without  her  consent.  This  was  her  final  propositif  n, 
and  the  one  determined  on:  they  were  to  leave  the  chateau  on  live 
next  night  and  go  alone,  being  followed  in  the  distance  by  Hans  aud 
the  chaplain,  to  examine  the  fire  of  Schreckenstein.  This,  however, 
was  too  much  for  the  canoness.  She  was  satisfied  the  witches  held 
their  Sabbath  on  the  Stone  of  Terror,  and  all  Consuelo  could  ohtahi 

i* 


CONSUKLOw 


ITS 

was,  that  the  gate*  migl  t be  opened  to  her  at  midnight,  and  that  the 
baron  and  a tew  other  persons  should  accompany  her  without  arm* 
and  in  silence.  It  waa  arranged  that  Count  Christian  was  to  know 
nothing  of  this,  because  his  advanced  age  and  feeMe  health  would  not 

Srmit  him  to  do  so  during  the  cold  and  unhealthy  season  All  knew, 
wever,  he  would  insist  on  accompanying  them. 

All  this  was  done,  as  Consuelo  had  desired.  The  baron,  the  chap- 
lain, and  Hans  accompanied  them.  She  went  alone  a hundred  paces 
in  advance  of  their  escort,  ascending  the  mountain  with  a courage 
worthy  of  Bradamante.  As  she  drew  near,  however,  the  light  which 
seemed  to  radiate  from  the  fissures  of  the  rock  becamo  gradually  dim, 
and  when  she  had  come  there  a deep  obscurity  enveloped  the  moun- 
tain from  the  base  to  the  summit.  All  was  silent  and  solitary.  She 
called  for  Zdenko,  Cynabre,  and  Albert,  though  when  she  uttered  his 
name  she  was  terrified.  Ail  was  silent,  and  echo  replied  alone. 

Perfectly  discouraged,  she  soon  returned  to  her  guides.  They  ex- 
tolled her  courage  greatly,  and  ventured  to  examihe  the  places  she 
had  left.  They  found  nothing,  and  all  returned  in  silence  to  the  cha- 
teau, when  the  canoness,  as  she  heard  their  story,  felt  her  last  hope 
decay. 


CHA  TER  XXXVHI. 

OoVftUXLO,  after  haying  received  the  thanks  and  the  kiss  of  the 
kind  Wenceslawa,  went  carefully  to  her  room,  taking  precaution  not 
to  waken  Amelia,  from  whom  the  enterprise  had  been  concealed. 
She  was  cn  the  first  story,  the  rooms  of  the  canoness  being  on  the 
ground  floor.  As  she  went  up  the  stairway,  though,  she  let  fall  her 
light,  which  went  out  before  she  had  time  to  pick  it  up.  She  thought 
she  could  fl^d  her  way  without  its  aid,  especially  as  day  was  about  to 
break.  Whether,  because  her  mind  was  strongly  engrossed,  or  that 
her  courage  after  such  an  unusual  exertion  had  been  exhausted,  it  at 
once  left  her,  and  she  trembled  so  that  she  went  on  until  she  came 
^o  the  upper  story,  and  reached  the  corridor  of  Albert’s  room,  just 
above  her  own.  Completely  terror-stricken,  she  saw  a dark  shadow 
retire  before  her,  and  glide  away  as  if  its  feet  did  not  touch  the  floor, 
into  the  rooxr  Consuelo  was  about  to  enter,  thinking  it  was  her  own. 
Amid  all  he?  terror,  sne  nad  enough  presence  of  mind  to  examine  the 
figure,  and  bee  that  it  was  Zdenko.  What  business  had  he  to  enter 
her  room  at  that  hour,  and  what  had  he  to  say  to  her?  She  did  not 
feel  disposed  to  meet  him  face  to  face,  and  went  down  stairs  to  see 
Wenceslawa.  Not  until  after  she  had  passed  down  stairs,  and 
through  a who  corridor,  did  she  become  aware  she  had  seen  Zdenko 
^nter  Albert’s  room. 

Then  a thousand  conjectures  suggested  themselves  to  her  mind, 
which  was  become  perfectly  calm  and  attentive.  How  had  the  idiot 
been  able  to  penetrate  by  night  into  a chateau  so  closely  watched  and 
examined  every  night  ? The  apparition  of  Zdenko  confirmed  an  idea 
she  had  always  entertained,  that  the  castle  had  a secret  outlet.  She 
hurried  to  the  door  of  the  canoness,  who  had  already  shut  herself  up 
in  her  austere  cell,  and  who  shri  *ked  aloud  when  she  saw  her  »o  pal* 
and  without  a light, 


179 


0 O N 8 U JK  L O. 

* Do  not  be  uneasy,  dear  madam,”  said  the  young  to  her. 
“ This  is  a new  event,  whimsical  enough,  perhaps,  which  need  not 
make  you  afraid.  I have  just  seen  Zdenko  in  Albert’s  room.” 

44  Zdenko!  You  are  dreaming,  my  dear  child.  How  could  he  have 
got  in?  I shu"  all  the  gates  carefully,  as  usual ; and  all  the  time  you 
were  on  the  mountain  I kept  a close  watch.  The  drawbridge  was  up* 
and  when  you  passed  over  it  on  your  return  I remained  behind  4o 
it  lifted  up  again.” 

“Be  that  as  it  may,  madam,  Zdenko  is  in  Albert’s  room.  You  can 
satisfy  yourself.” 

44  I will,  and  will  have  him  put  out.  He  must  have  come  in  during 
the  day.  That  proves,  my  child,  that  he  knows  no  more  where  Al- 
bert is  than  we  do.” 

44  At  all  events,  let  us  see,”  said  Consuelo. 

44  One  moment,”  said  the  canoness,  who,  being  about  to  go  to  bed, 
had  taken  off  some  of  her  under-garments,  and  fancied  herself  too 
lightly  clad.  44  I cannot  thus  present  myself  before  a man.  Go  foi 
the  chaplain  or  the  baron,  the  first  you  see.  We  cannot  expose  our- 
selves to  meet  this  madman.  Now,  though,  I think,  it  will  not  do  for 
a woman  like  you  to  knock  at  their  doors.  Well,  I will  soon  be  ready. 
Wait  for  me.” 

She  dressed  herself  as  quickly  as  possible,  acting,  though,  as  if  the 
interruption  of  her  usual  habits  had  completely  crazed  her.  Con- 
suelo, impatient  lest  during  the  delay  Zdenko  might  leave  Albert’s 
room  and  conceal  himself  somewhere  in  the  castle,  regained  all  her 
energy.  “ Dear  madam,”  said  she,  lighting  her  lamp,  “ will  you  eall 
the  gentlemen,  while  I take  care  Zdenko  does  not  escape.” 

Going  hastily  up  two  flights  of  stairs,  she  opened  Albert’s  door 
without  any  difficulty.  The  room,  however,  was  deserted.  She  went 
into  the  cabinet,  examined  every  curtain,  and  even  looked  under  the 
bed  and  behind  the  curtains.  Zdenko  was  not  there,  and  had  left  no 
trace. 

44  Nobody  is  there,”  said  she  to  the  canoness,  who  came  up-stairs 
with  Hans  and  the  chaplain.  The  baron  was  in  bed  and  asleep,  and 
they  had  not  been  able  to  wake  him. 

“ I begin  to  be  afraid,”  said  the  chaplain,  rather  out  of  humor  at  the 
new  alarm,  44  that  Porporina  is  the  dupe  of  her  own  illusions.” 

“ No,  sir,”  said  she ; “ no  one  of  this  company  is  less  so  than  I am.” 

44  And  no  one,”  said  the  good  man,  “ has  more  true  good  will.  In 
your  ardent  wish  to  discover  some  traces  of  Albert,  you  have  suffered 
yourself  to  be  deceived.” 

“ Father,”  said  the  canoness,  “ la  Porporina  is  brave  as  a lion,  and 
prudent  as  a doctor.  If  she  saw  Zdenko,  he  was  here.  We  must  have 
the  house  searched,  and,  as  it  is  closed,  he  cannot  escape  us,  thank 
God.” 

The  other  servants  were  awakened,  and  every  place  was  searched. 
Every  dormitory  was  opened,  every  article  of  furniture  was  deranged. 
The  forage  even  of  the  stables  was  examined.  Hans  looked  even  into 
the  big  boots  of  the  baron.  Zdenko  was  neither  in  them  nor  in  any 
visible  place.  All  began  to  think  Consuelo  had  been  dreaming.  Sh€^ 
though,  was  more  satisfied  than  ever  that  there  was  a mysterious 
outlet  to  the  castle,  and  this  she  resolved  to  discover.  After  a few 
hours’  rest,  she  resolved  to  look  again.  The  building  in  which  her 
rooms  were  (Albert’s  were  there  too),  was,  as  it  were,  hung  on  tha 
Mil  side.  This  picturesque  position  had  been  selected  by  Albert,  b#- 


180 


CON  SUE  LO. 


cause  it  enabled  him  to  enjoy  a fine  southern  view,  and  on  the  east 
overlook  a pretty  garden  on  a level  with  his  workshop.  He  was 
fond  of  flowers,  and  cultivated  some  rare  plants  in  beds  on  the  ter- 
race, the  earth  to  form  which  had  been  brought  thither  from  below. 
The  terrace  was  surrounded  by  a heavy  stone  wall,  breast  high, 
overlooking  rough  rocks  and  a flowery  belvidera  on  one  side,  and 
on  the  other  a large  portion  of  the  Boehmer-wald.  Consuelo  had 
never  yet  been  in  this  place,  and  admired  its  fine  position  and  pict- 
uresque arrangement.  She  then  made  the  chaplain  tell  her  what 
had  been  the  use  of  this  terrace  since  the  time  the  castle  had  been 
transformed  from  a fortress  into  a residence. 

He  said  it  was  an  old  bastion,  a kind  of  fortified  terrace,  whence 
the  garrison  were  able  to  watch  the  motions  of  troops  in  the  valley  or 
mountains  around.  Every  pass  was  visible  hence.  Once  a high  wall 
with  loopholes  surrounded  the  platform,  and  protected  the  garrison 
from  the  arrows  of  the  enemy. 

“ What  is  this  ? ” said  Consuelo,  approaching  a cistern  in  the  midst 
of  the  parterre,  and  in  which  was  a narrow  winding  stairway. 

44  This  once  supplied  the  garrison  abundantly  with  spring  water. 
It  was  of  vast  importance  to  the  fortress.” 

44  This  water  is  then  fit  to  drink,”  said  Consuelo,  as  she  looked  at 
the  green  and  slimy  water  of  the  cistern.  “ To  me  it  looks  as  if  it 
had  been  disturbed.” 

44  It  is  not  good  now,  or,  at  least,  it  is  not  always  good,  and  Count 
Albert  uses  it  only  to  water  his  flowers.  I must  tell  you  that  about 
two  months  ago  a strange  phenomenon  took  place  in  this  fountain. 
The  spring  (for  there  is  one  in  the  mountain)  became  intermittent. 
For  several  weeks  the  water  sinks  rapidly,  and  Count  Albert  makes 
Zdenko  bring  up  buckets-full  to  water  his  plants.  All  at  once,  some- 
times during  one  night  or  one  hour,  the  cistern  becomes  filled  with 
warm  troubled  water,  as  you  see  now.  Some  phenomenon  of  this 
kind  must  have  taken  place  during  the  night,  for  on  yesterday  only 
the  cistern  was  clear  and  full,  and  now  it  looks  as  if  it  had  been 
empty  and  filled  again.” 

44  These  phenomena  do  not  recur  regularly  ? ” 

44  No.  I would  have  examined  them  carefully,  had  not  Count  Al- 
bert, who  keeps  all  from  entering  his  room  and  his  garden,  with  the 
sternness  he  exhibits  in  every  respect,  forbade  me  to  do  so.” 

44  How,  then,  do  you  explain  the  disappearance  of  the  water  at 
other  times?  ” 

44  By  the  great  quantity  required  for  the  Count’s  flowers.” 

44  Many  hours,  it  seems  to  me,  would  be  required  to  empty  this  cis- 
tern. Is  it  not  deep  ? ” 

44  Not  deep  ? It  has  no  bottom.” 

44  your  explanation  is  not  satisfactory,”  said  Consuelo,  amazed 
at  the  chaplain’s  folly.” 

44  Find  a better  one,  then,*  said  he,  sharply. 

44  Certainly  I will,”  said  Consuelo,  completely  engrossed  by  the 
caprices  of  &e  fountain. 

440h!  if  you  ask  Co~xt  Albert  about  it,”  said  the  chaplain,  who 
would  have  willingly  acquired  an  ascendency  over  the  clear-sighted 
Granger,  44  he  would  tell  you  they  are  the  tears  of  his  mother,  collectr 
ed  in  the  centre  of  the  mountain.  The  famous  Zdenko,  to  whom  you 
attribute  so  much  penetration,  would  say  that  some  syren  sang  there 
to  those  who  had  ears  to  hear.  They  have  baptised  this  well  4 the 


eoNBUito.  181 

ftnmtain  of  tears.*  All  that  may  be  very  fanciful  to  persons  who  are 
satisfied  with  Pagan  fables.” 

“ They  do  not  satisfy  me,  and  I will  find  out  this  secret.” 

“ For  my  part,”  said  the  chaplain,  “ I think  there  must  be  an 
escapement  in  some  other  part  of  the  fountain.” 

“ Certainly,”  said  Consuelo,  “ otherwise  it  would  always  overflow.” 
“ Certainly,  certainly,”  said  the  chaplain,  unwilling  to  confess  that 
the  Idea  occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time.  “ One  need  not  go  far  to 
ascertain  so  simple  a thing.  There  must,  though,  be  some  derange- 
ment in  the  canals  since  the  spring  does  not  maintain  its  cld  level.” 

“ Are  those  natural  veins,  or  artificial  aqueducts  ? ” sa  id  the  self- 
willed  Consuelo.  “ It  is  important  to  ascertain  this.” 

“ No  one  can  do  so,”  said  the  chaplain;  “ for  Count  Albert  will  per- 
mit no  one  #to  interfere  with  his  fountain,  and  has  positively  ordered 
that  it  shall  not  be  cleaned  out.” 

“I  was  sure  of  it,”  said  Consuelo,  going  away.  “ I think  you  are 
right  to  respect  his  wishes ; for  God  only  knows  what  may  be  the 
result  if  his  syren  be  contradicted.” 

“ It  seems  clear  to  me,”  said  the  chaplain,  as  she  left,  “ that  that 
voung  lady’s  mind  is  as  much  out  of  order  as  Count  Albert’s.  Folly 
is  contagious.  Perhaps  Porpora  has  sent  her  hither  to  be  revived 
by  country  air.  If  I did  not  look  at  the  obstinacy  with  which  she 
insisted  on  explaining  away  the  mystery  of  the  fountain,  I would  be 
half  inclined  to  think  her  the  daughter  of  some  canal-maker  of  Ve- 
nice, and  pretending  to  know  all  about  such  things.  I can  see, 
though,  from  her  last  words,  and  her  hallucination  about  Zdenko  this 
morning,  and  taking  us  up  in  the  mountain,  that  it  is  a fancy  of  the 
same  kind.  She  takes  it  into  her  head  Count  Albert  is  in  the  well. 
Poor  children,  will  they  ever  become  reasonable  ? ” 

The  good  chaplain  then  went  to  tell  his  beads  until  dinner  time. 
Consuelo  said  to  herself,  “ Idleness  and  apathy  must  beget  a strange 
weakness  of  mind,  to  make  this  holy  man,  who  has  read  and  learned 
so  much,  have  no  idea  of  my  suspicions  about  this  fountain.  Forgive 
me,  oh  God!  but  that  servant  and  minister  of  thine  makes  little  use 
of  his  reason.  They  say  Zdenko  is  imbecile ! ” Consuelo  then  went 
to  give  the  young  baroness  a lesson  in  music,  to  while  away  the  time, 
until  she  might  be  at  liberty  to  begin  her  examination  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX, 

“ Have  you  ever  been  present  at  the  falling  of  the  water,  or  seen 
it  re-ascend  ? ” said  Consuelo,  in  a low  voice,  to  the  chaplain,  as  he 
sat  comfortably  digesting  his  dinner  during  the  evening. 

“ What — what  did  you  jay  ? ” cried  he,  bounding  up  in  his  chair, 
and  rolling  his  great  round  eyes. 

“ I was  speaking  to  you  of  the  cistern,”  returned  she,  without  be- 
ing disconcerted : “have  you  evar  yourself  observed  the  occurrence 
of  the  phenomenon  ? ” 

“ Ah,  yes-the  cistern— I remember,”  replied  he,  with  a smile  of 
*itv.  “ There,”  thought  he,  “ her  crazy  fit  has  attacked  her  again.” 

“ But  you  have  not  answered  my  question,  my  dear  chaplain,”  sai< 


1*2 


CONSUELO, 


Consuelo,  who  pursued  her  object  with  that  kind  of  eagerness  which 
characterised  all  her  Noughts  and  actions,  and  which  was  not 
prompted  in  the  least  by  any  malicious  feeling  towards  the  worthy 
man. 

WI  must  confess,  mademoiselle,”  replied  he,  coldly,  “ that  I was 
never  fortunate  enough  to  observe  that  to  which  you  refer;  and  I 
assure  you  I never  lost  my  sleep  on  that  account.” 

u Oh,  I am  very  certain  of  that,”  replied  the  impatient  Consuelo. 

The  chaplain  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  with  a great  effort  rose 
from  his  chair,  in  order  to  escape  from  so  very  ardent  an  inquirer. 

“ Well,  since  no  one  here  is  willing  to  lose  an  hour’s  sleep  for  so  im- 
portant a discovery,  I will  devote  my  whole  night  to  it  if  necessary,” 
thought  Consuelo ; and  while  waiting  for  the  hour  of  retiring,  sh t» 
wrapped  herself  in  her  mantle,  and  proceeded  to  take  a turn  in  the 
garden. 

The  night  was  cold  and  bright,  and  the  mists  of  evening  dispersed 
In  proportion  as  the  moon,  then  full,  ascended  towards  the  empyrean. 
The  stars  twinkled  more  palely  at  her  approach,  and  the  atmosphere 
was  dry  and  clear.  Consuelo,  excited,  but  not  overpowered,  by  the 
mingled  effects  of  fatigue,  want  of  sleep,  and  the  generous,  but  per- 
haps rather  unhealthy  sympathy  she  experienced  for  Albert^  felt  a 
slight  sensation  of  fever,  which  the  cool  evening  air  could  not  dissi- 
pate. It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  touched  upon  the  fulfilment  of  her 
enterprise,  and  a romantic  presentiment,  which  she  interpreted  as  a 
command  and  encouragement  from  Providence,  kept  her  mind  un- 
easy and  agitated.  She  seated  herself  upon  a little  grassy  hillock, 
studded  with  larches,  and  began  to  listen  to  the  feeble  and  plaintive 
sound  of  the  streamlet  at  the  bottom  of  the  valley.  But  it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  another  voice,  still  more  sweet  and  plaintive,  mingled  with 
the  murmurings  of  the  water  and  by  degrees  floated  upwards  to  her 
ears.  She  stretched  herself  upon  the  turf,  in  order,  being  nearer  the 
earth,  to  hear  better  those  light  sounds  which  the  breeze  wafted 
towards  her  every  moment.  At  last  she  distinguished  Zdenko’s  voice. 
He  sang  in  German,  and  by  degrees  she  could  distinguish  the  follow- 
ing words,  tolerably  well  arranged  to  a Bohemian  air,  which  was 
characterised  by  the  same  simple  and  plaintive  expression  as  those 
she  had  already  heard : — 

“ There  is  down  there,  down  there,  a soul  in  pain  and  in  labor, 
which  awaits  her  deliverance. 

“ Her  deliverance,  her  consolation,  so  often  promised. 

“ The  deliverance  seems  enchained,  the  consolation  seems  pitiless. 

“ There  is  down  there,  down  there,  a soul  in  pain  and  in  labor  which 
Is  weary  of  waiting.” 

When  the  voice  ceased  singing  Consuelo  rose,  looked  in  every  di- 
rection for  Zdenko,  searching  the  whole  park  and  garden  to  find  him, 
called  him  in  various  places,  but  was  obliged  to  return  to  the  castle 
without  having  seen  him. 

But  an  hour  afterwards,  when  the  whole  household  had  joined  in  a 
long  prayer  for  Count  Albert,  and  when  everybody  had  retifed  to  rest, 
Consuelo  hastened  to  place  herself  near  the  Fountain  of  Tears,  and 
seating  herself  upon  the  margin,  amid  the  thick  mosses  and  water 
plants  which  grew  there  naturally,  and  the  irises  which  Albert  had 
planted,  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  motionless  water,  in  which  the 
jaocn,  then  arrived  at  the  zenith,  was  reflected  as  in  a mirror. 

After  the  lapse  of  about  an  hour,  as  the  courageous  girl,  overcome  by. 


CON8UELO, 


183 


Jhdgue,  felt  her  eyelids  o :>se,  she  was  awakened  by  a light  murmur  on 
the  surface  of  the  water.  She  looked  around,  and  saw  the  reflection 
of  the  moon  vibrating  on  the  mirror  of  the  fountain.  At  the  same 
time  a bubbling  and  an  indistinct  noise,  at  first  imperceptible,  but 
growing  giadually  impetuous,  was  heard.  She  saw  the  water  gradu- 
ally sink ; and  in  a quarter  of  an  hour  disappear.  She  ventured  to 
descend  a few  steps.  The  stairway,  which  seemed  to  have  been  made 
to  enable  the  tide  level  of  the  water  to  be  reached,  was  formed  of  vast 
blocks  of  granite  cut  in  a spiral  form.  The  slippery  steps  afforded  her 
no  resting-place,  and  descended  to  a great  depth.  Darkness,  the  drip- 
ping of  the  rest  of  the  water  down  the  immeasurable  precipices,  and 
the  impossibility  of  a steady  step,  put  an  end  to  the  mad  attempt  of 
Consuelo.  She  ascended,  with  her  face  looking  downwards,  with  great 
difficulty,  and  pale  and  terrified,  sat  on  the  first  step. 

The  waters  seemed  to  sink  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  The  noise 
became  more  and  more  indistinct,  and  Consuelo  had  almost  resolved 
to  go  for  a light  to  examine  the  interior  of  the  cistern.  She  was,  how- 
ever, afraid  that  the  person  she  expected  would  not  come,  and  there- 
fore was  motionless  for  half  an  hour.  At  last  she  fancied  that  she 
saw  a faint  light  at  the  bottom  of  the  well,  which  seemed  gradually  to 
grow  near  her.  She  was  soon  relieved  of  all  doubt,  for  she  saw  Zdei* 
ko  come  up  the  stairway,  holding  on  by  an  iron  chain  which  was  fas» 
tened  to  the  rock.  The  noise  he  made,  as  he  took  hold  of  the  chain 
and  again  let  it  go,  informed  Consuelo  of  the  existence  of  a regular 
stairway,  and  relieved  her  from  all  anxiety.  Zdenko  had  a lantern, 
which  he  hung  on  a hook,  intended  to  be  used  for  the  purpose,  and 
which  was  about  twenty  feet  below  the  ground.  He  then  came  rap- 
idly up  the  rest  of  the  stairway  without  using  tne  chain  or  any  appar- 
ent aid.  Consuelo  looked  at  him  with  the  greatest  attention,  and  saw 
him  assist  himself  by  various  points  of  the  rock,  and  by  several  para- 
sitic plants  which  seemed  more  vigorous  than  the  other,  and  it  may 
be,  by  various  nails  driven  into  the  wall,  with  the  position  of  which 
he  was  familiar.  As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  see  Consuelo,  she  hid  her- 
self behind  the  balus^ade,  at  the  top  of  the  stairway.  Zdenko  went 
out  and  began  to  gather  with  much  care  certain  choice  flowers.  He 
then  went  into  Albert’s  room  through  a glass  door,  and  Consuelo  saw 
him  look  among  the  books  for  one  which  he  seemed  at  last  to  find. 
He  then  returned  to  the  cistern  with  a smile  on  his  face,  and  at  the 
same  time  talking  almost  inaudibly,  as  if  he  was  afraid  to  awaken  the 
inmates  of  the  house,  and  yet  was  anxious  to  talk  to  himself. 

Consuelo  had  not,  as  yet,  asked  herself  whether  she  should  speak  to 
him  and  ask  him  to  take  her  to  Albert.  To  tell  the  truth,  she  was  at 
this  time  amazed  at  what  she  saw,  and  rejoiced  at  having  had  a pre- 
sentiment of  what  she  saw  to  be  the  truth.  She  had  not  courage 
enough,  though,  to  venture  to  descend  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
and  suffered  Zdenko  to  descend  again,  take  his  lantern  and  disappear 
— his  voice  resuming  its  power  as  he  went  into  the  depths  of  his  re- 
treat:— “ Liberty  is  manacled  and  consolation  is  pitiless.” 

With  a beating  heart  and  a neck  outstretched,  Consuelo  ten  times 
at  least  was  on  the  point  of  recalling  him.  She  was  resolved  at  one 
time  to  make  a heroic  effort,  when  she  remembered  that  from  surprise 
the  poor  man  might  quail  and  tremble,  and  that  dizziness  might  cause 
his  death.  She  did  not  therefore  call,  but  resolved  on  the  next  day  to 
be  more  courageous,  and  to  call  him  at  the  proper  time. 

She  waited  to  see  the  water  rise,  and  on  this  occasion  it  did  so  more 


COHStJKLO. 


tSi 

rapidly.  Scarcely  a quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed  since  Zdeuko^s 
voice  became  inaudible  and  the  light  of  his  lantern  invisible,  when  a 
hoarse  noise,  not  unlike  the  rolling  of  distant  thunder,  was  heard. 
The  water  rushed  up  violently,  whirling  around  the  walls  of  the  well 
and  boiling  impetuously.  This  sudden  rush  of  water  was  so  violent 
that  Consuelo  trembled  for  poor  Zdenko,  and  asked  herself  if  in  thus 
sporting  with  danger  and  controlling  the  powers  of  nature,  he  was  not 
danger  of  being  carried  away,  and  some  day  of  reappearing  on  the 
surface  of  the  water  crushed  and  bruised,  like  tlie  slimy  plants  she 
saw  floating  on  the  surface. 

“ Yet  everything  must  necessarily  be  very  simple.  He  needed  only 
to  'ift.  up  or  shut  down  a flood-gate — perhaps  he  had  only  to  push 
down  a stone  as  he  entered,  and  remove  it  as  he  left.  Might  not  this 
man,  always  preoccupied  and  immersed  in  reveries,  be  mistaken  some 
day  and  move  the  stone  a moment  too  soon  ? Did  he  come  up  by  the 
same  passage  which  led  from  the  spring?  I must  go  through,  though, 
either  with  or  without  him,  and  that  at  no  more  remote  an  hour  than 
the  Dext  night — ‘ For  a soul  is  in  toil  below  waiting  for,  and  anxious 
because  I do  not  come.’  That  was  not  sung  by  chance,  and  not  with- 
out difficulty  did  Zdenko,  who  hates  German  and  pronounces  it  im- 
perfectly, speak  to-day  in  that  tongue.” 

At  last  she  went  to  bed,  but  passed  the  whole  night  a prey  to  terri- 
ble night-mares.  Fever  was  beginning;  she  was  not  aware  of  it,  so 
full  was  she  of  power  and  resolution.  Every  now  and  then,  though, 
she  awoke  suddenly,  imagining  that  she  was  yet  on  the  stairs  of  that 
terrible  well,  without  being  able  to  ascend  them,  while  the  water  rose 
around  her  rapidly  as  possible. 

She  was  on  the  next  day  so  changed  that  everybody  remarked  it. 
The  chaplain  could  not  help  saying  to  the  canoness,  that  this  “ agree- 
able and  obliging  person  ” seemed  to  be  a little  deranged.  The  good 
Wenceslawa,  who  was  unused  to  see  so  much  courage  and  devotion, 
began  to  fancy  that  the  young  daughter  was  very  excitable  and  ner- 
vous. She  had  too  much  confidence  in  her  iron-bound  doors  and  the 
keys  which  always  hung  at  her  belt,  to  fancy  it  possible  for  Zdenko  to 
enter  and  leave  at  night.  She  then  spoke  kindly  to  Consuelo,  and  be- 
sought her  not  to  identify  herself  with  their  family  misfortunes,  and 
endanger  her  health.  She  also  sought  to  give  her  Lcpes  of  the  speedy 
return  of  her  nephew,  though  she  had  began  to  1 cee  all  hope  of  it  her- 
self. Indeed,  she  was  under  the  influence  of  both  hope  and  fear, 
when  Consuelo  replied  to  her  with  a glance  brilliant  with  satisfac- 
tion— 

“ You  are  right  to  think  and  hope  so,  madam.  Count  Albert  is 
alive  and  not  sick,  I hope.  He  yet  is  anxious  about  his  books  and 
flowers  in  his  retreat — I am  certain  of  it,  and  can  satisfy  you.” 

“ What  mean  you,  my  child  ? ” said  Wenceslawa,  overcome  by  her 
manner.  “ What  have  you  discovered  ? Tell  me,  for  heaven’s  sake. 
Restore  peace  to  our  family.” 

“ Tell  Count  Christian  that  his  son  is  alive  and  not  far  away.  It  is 
as  true  as  that  I love  and  respect  you.” 

The  canoness  went  a , once  to  her  brother,  who  had  not  yet  come 
down  stairs.  A glance  and  sigh,  however,  from  the  chaplain,  induced 
her  to  pause.  “ Let  us  not  without  care  give  such  pleasure  to  mj 
poor  Christian,”  said  she.  “ What  if  the  fact  should  soon  contradie* 
your  promises  I Ah ! my  child,  we  would  then  be  the  murderan  of 
3ie  unfortunate  father.” 


COKflUELO- 


186 


* Do  too  t hen  doubt  my  word  ? ” said  Consuelo,  amazed. 

*Goa  keep  me  from  doing  so,  my  noble  Nina:  you  may  be  mis- 
taken.— AJasl  that  often  happens  to  us.  You  say  you  have  proofs, 
my  dear  child — can  you  not  mention  them  ? ” 

“ I cannot — at  least  it  seems  to  me  that  I cannot,”  said  Consuelo, 
with  embarrassment.  “ I have  discovered  a secret,  to  which  Count 
Albert  certainly  attaches  much  importance,  and  I cannot  betray  it 
without  his  consent.” 

“ Without  his  consent ! ” said  the  canoness,  looking  at  the  chaplain 
with  an  expression  of  doubt.  “ Can  she  have  seen  him  ? ” 

The  chaplain  shrugged  his  shoulders  imperceptibly,  without  under- 
standing the  grief  he- thus  inflicted  on  Wenceslawa. 

“ I have  not  seen  him,”  said  Consuelo;  “ I will  soon,  however,  de 
so,  and  so  too  will  you.  For  that  reason  I shall  be  afraid,  if  I contra- 
dict his  wishes,  to  prevent  his  return.” 

“ May  divine  truth  make  its  home  in  your  heart,  generous  being,” 
said  Wenceslawa,  looking  at  her  anxiously  and  sorrowfully.  u Keep 
your  secret,  if  you  have  one,  and  restore  Albert  to  us  if  you  can.  All 
I know  is,  that  if  this  be  ever  realized,  I shall  kiss  your  knees  as  I now 
do  your  poor  brow — humid  and  burning  as  it  is,”  said  she.  After 
having  kissed  the  young  girl,  she  looked  towards  the  chaplain  with  an 
excited  air. 

“ If  she  is  mad,”  she  said  to  the  latter,  as  soon  as  she  could  speak 
without  witnesses,  “ she  is  yet  an  angel  of  goodness,  and  seems  to  be 
more  occupied  with  our  sufferings  than  we  are  ourselves.  Ah  1 my 
father,  there  is  a malediction  weighing  over  this  house.  All  that  have 
any  sublimity  of  feeling  are  attacked  with  madness,  and  our  life  is 
passed  in  complaining  of  what  we  are  forced  to  admire.” 

“ I do  much  admire  the  kind  emotions  of  this  young  stranger,”  said 
the  chaplain.  “You  may,  however,  be  sure  that  she  is  mad.  She 
dreamed  of  Count  Albert  last  night,  and  represents  her  visions  as  cer- 
tainties. Be  careful  to  leave  undisturbed  the  pious  and  submissive 
heart  of  your  brother.  Perhaps,  too,  you  should  not  encourage  the 
temerity  of  this  Signorina  Porporina.  They  may  precipitate  her  into 
dangers  of  another  kind  than  those  she  has  hitherto  been  willing  to 
brave.” 

“ I do  not  understand  you,”  said  the  canoness,  with  grave  naivete. 

“ I find  not  a little  difficulty  in  explaining  myself,”  said  the  worthy 
man.  “ Yet  it  appears  to  me,  that  if  a secret  understanding,  innocent 
though  it  be,  should  be  established  between  this  young  artist  and  the 
count ” 

“ Well?  ” said  the  canoness,  staring. 

“Well!  madam  do  you  not  think  that  sentiments  of  interest  and 
anxiety,  innocent  Aowever  they  might  be  at  first,  from  the  force  of 
circumstances  and  the  influence  of  romantic  ideas,  may  become  dan* 
gerous  to  the  fepose  and  quiet  of  the  young  artist?  ” 

“I  ne?er  wauld  have  thought  of  that,”  said  the  canoness,  who  wai 
struck  with  the  reflection.  “ So  you  think,  father,  that  Porporina 
can  / ar  forget  her  humble  and  uncertain  position,  in  associating 
far  above  her  as  the  of  Rudolstadt,  my  nephew  ? ” 

The  Count  of  Rudolstadt  mlgkt  himself  aid  her  in  doing  so,  with- 
out the  intention,  however,  from  the  manner  n which  he  spoke  of 
the  advantage  of  rank  and  birth.” 

“ You  make  me  very  uneasy,”  saM  Wenceslawa,  all  the  fk&uj  pride 
w whom  was  awakened,— “This  was  her  only  bad  trait.  Can  tha 


186 


CONSUELO, 


idea  hare  germinated  In  the  young  girl's  mind  ? Can  there  be  In  her 
agitation  and  anxiety  to  find  Albert,  more  than  her  attachment  to 
us  ? ” 

u As  yet  I think  not,”  said  the  canon,  who  had  no  wish  but  by  his 
advice  and  counsel,  to  play  ail  important  part  in  the  family,  though 
he  all  the  time  preserved  the  air  of  obsequious  submission.  “ You 
must,  however,  my  dear  daughter,  keep  your  eyes  open  to  the  course 
of  events,  and  your  vigilance  must  never  forget  such  dangers.  This 
is  a delicate  role , and  it  suits  you  precisely.  It  requires  the  consola- 
tion with  which  God  has  gifted  you.” 

After  this  conversation,  the  canoness  seemed  completely  overcome. 
She  forgot  that  Albert  was,  as  it  were,  lost  to  her,  and  was  now  dying 
or  dead,  and  remembered  only  the  horrors  of  an  unequal  match,  as 
she  called  it.  She  was  like  the  Indian  in  the  fable,  who  having  as- 
cended a tree  while  under  the  influence  of  terror  in  the  form  of  a 
tiger,  amused  himself  by  driving  a fly  from  his  head. 

She  watched  all  day  every  motion  of  Porporina,  and  carefully  an- 
alyzed every  word  and  act.  Our  heroine — for  such  she  was  in  every 
sense  of  the  term — saw  this,  but  did  not  attribute  it  to  any  other  mo- 
tive than  the  desire  to  see  her  keep  her  promise,  by  restoring  Albert. 
She  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  conceal  her  own  agitation,  so  calm 
and  quiet  did  her  conscience  seem,  for  she  was  rather  proud  of  her 
plan  than  ashamed  of  it.  This  modest  confusion,  which  a few  days 
before  had  awakened  the  young  count’s  enthusiasm,  was  dissipated  at 
the  touch  of  a serious  determination,  free  from  any  personal  vanity. 
The  bitter  sarcasms  of  Amelia,  who  had  a presentiment  of  her  enter- 
prise, without  any  knowledge  of  its  details,  did  not  at  all  excite  her: 
she  scarcely  heard  her  and  replied  to  her  by  smiles.  She  suffered 
the  canoness — the  ears  of  whom  were  always  open — the  care  of  regis- 
tering, commenting  on,  and  interpreting  them. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Ykt,  when  she  saw  herself  watched  by  Wenceslawa  as  she  had 
never  been,  Consuelo  was  afraid  of  being  contradicted  by  mistaken 
seal,  and  remained  calm,  cold,  and  cautious  as  possible,  by  means  of 
which  she  escaped  during  the  day,  and  went  with  a light  heart  to 
Schreckenstein.  In  doing  so  she  had  no  idea  but  to  meet  Zdenko,  and? 
force  him  to  an  explanation,  and  make  him  inform  her  if  he  would; 
take  her  to  Albert.  She  found  him  near  the  castle,  on  the  road  to  the 
mountain.  He  seemed  to  come  towards  her,  and  spoke  Bohemian 
with  great  rapidity.  ' 

“Alas 1 1 do  not  understand  you,”  said  Consuelo,  when  she  was  able 
to  interrupt  him.  “ I scarcely  know  German,  that  harsh  language 
you  hate,  as  the  badge  of  slavery,  and  which  reminds  me  of  exile. 
Since,  though,  there  is  no  other  means  for  us  to  understand  each 
other,  speak  it  with  me.  We  each  understand  it  slightly,  and  I will 
learn  Bohemian  if  you  will  teach  me.” 

These  words  appealed  to  Zdenko’s  sympathies,  and  he  gave  Consue- 
lo his  hard  hand,  which  she  d.d  » Jt  hesitate  to  clasp.  “ Blessed  child,” 
said  he,  “I  will  teach  you  my  language  and  all  my  songs.  What 
Mian  I begin  with?” 


90N8tJBLe< 


18 1 

Consuelo  thought  she  would  humor  his  whim  by  making  use  of  the 
same  means  of  interrogation.  “ I wish  you,”  said  she,  “ to  sing  me 
the  ballad  of  Count  Albert.” 

“ There  are,”  said  he,  “ more  than  two  hundred  thousand  ballads 
about  my  brother  Albert.  I cannot  teach  them  to  you,  for  you  can- 
not understand  them.  I make  new  ones  every  day  altogether  differ- 
ent from  the  old  ones.  Ask  something  else.” 

“ Why  shall  I not  understand  them?  I am  consolation.  I am 
named  Consuelo  to  you  and  to  Count  Albert,  who  alone  knows  me 
here.” 

“ You  Consuelo,”  said  Zdenko,  laughing  in  derison.  “ You  do  not 
kix>w  what  you  say ; deliverance  is  bound.” 

“ I know  that;  consolation  is  pitiless.  You,  though, know  nothing, 
Zdenko.  Liberty  has  broken  its  chains,  and  consolation  its  fetters.” 

“ No,  no.  Folly  and  German  words,”  said  Zdenko,  repressing  his 
tricks  and  laughter,  “ you  cannot  sing.” 

“ Yes,  I can.  Listen,” — and  she  sang  the  first  verse  of  his  song  on 
the  three  mountains,  which  she  had  retained  in  her  memory,  and 
which  Amelia  had  taught  her  to  pronounce. 

Zdenko  listened  with  delight,  and  said,  with  a sigh,  “ I love  you 
dearly;  shall  I teach  you  another  song?  ” 

“ Yes;  that  of  Count  Albert,  first  in  German;  the  Bohemian  you 
shall  teach  me  at  some  other  time.” 

“ How  does  it  begin  ? ” said  Zdenko,  looking  mischievously  at  her. 
Consuelo  began  in  a low  tone  the  song  she  had  heard  on  the  pre- 
vious evening.  “ There  is  below,  there  is  below,  a soul  in  labor  and 
pain.” 

“ Ah ! that  was  yesterday’s  song ; to-day  I have  forgotten  it,”  said 
Zdenko,  interrupting  her. 

“ Well,  tell  me  to-day’s.” 

“ Let  me  have  the  first  words.  That  you  must  tell  me.” 

“ The  first  words  ? Here  they  are, — ‘ Count  Albert  is  below  in  the 
cavern  of  S.chreckenstein.’  ” 

No  sooner  had  she  pronounced  these  words  than  Zdenko  at  once 
changed  his  air  and  manner.  He  stepped  backwards  several  paces 
and  lifted  up  his  hands  as  if  he  was  about  to  curse  her.  At  the  same 
time  he  began  to  speak  Bohemian  with  all  the  energy  of  anger  and 
menace. 

At  first  she  was  alarmed,  but  seeing  that  he  was  about  to  go,  she 
sought  to  retain  him.  He  turned  round,  and  seizing  a stone,  so  large 
that  he  could  scarcely  hold  it  with  his  thin,  skeleton  hands,  he  said — 
“Zdenko  hitherto  has  done  wrong  to  no  one;  Zdenko  would  not 
break  the  wing  of  a fly,  and  if  a child  wished  to  kill  him  he  would 
submit.  If  you  ook  at  me  again  — if  you  speak  to  me,  false  and 
treacherous  Austrian,  daughter  of  the  evil  one — Zdenko  will  crush 
you  as  he  would  % worm,  and  then  cast  himself  into  the  torrent  to 
wipe  away  the  stain  of  human  blood ! ” 

Consuelo  fled  in  terror,  and  met  at  the  end  of  the  path  a peasant, 
who,  amazed  at  seeing  her  run  so  pale  and  terror-stricken,  asked  her 
if  she  had  met  a wolf. 

Consuelo,  anxious  to  ascertain  if  Zdenko  was  iable  to  such  attacks, 
told  him  she  had  met  the  innocent,  who  had  frightened  her. 

“ You  should  not  fear  him,”  said  the  peasant,  smiling  at  what  ha 
thought  her  timidity.  “ Zder  ko  is  a good  fellow,  and  either  laughs 
or  sings,  or  tells  stories  which  we  do  not  understand,  but  which  an 
very  beautiful.” 


188 


CONStJELO, 


“But  he  gets  angry  sometimes,  and  then  threaten*  and  throw! 
•tones.” 

*'  No,  no,”  said  the  peasant,  “ that  never  has  happened,  and  never 
will.  You  must  not  be  afraid  of  Zdenko,  who  is  an  angel.” 

When  she  had  recovered,  Consuelo  thought  the  peasant  must  be 
right,  and  that  by  her  imprudence  she  had  provoked  the  only  attack 
or  madness  he  had  ever  suffered  with.  She  reproached  herself  bit- 
terly, and  said — “I  was  too  eager,  and  have  awakened  in  the  quiet 
soul  of  this  man,  deprived  of  what  they  proudly  call  reason,  a suffer- 
ing he  has  hitherto  been  ignorant  of,  but  which  will  now  take  posses- 
sion of  him  on  every  opportunity.  He  was  a maniac,  and  perhaps  I 
have  made  him  incurably  mad.” 

She  became  yet  more  sad  when  she  sought  for  the  motives  of  Zden- 
ko’s  anger.  It  was  now  certain  that  her  suspicions  were  verified  of 
Albert’s  retreat  in  Schreckenstein.  With  what  zealous  care  did  Albert 
and  Zdenko  conceal  the  secret  from  them.  She  was  not  privileged — 
she  had  no  influence  over  Count  Albert,  and  this  feeling  which  had 
induced  him  to  call  her  his  Consolation,  the  care  he  had  taken  the 
evening  before  to  attract  her  attention  by  a symbolic  chaunt,  had 
been  but  a momentary  whim,  without  any  true  and  constant  inspira- 
tion pointing  to  her  rather  than  another  as  his  consoler  and  libera- 
trix.  This  very  word,  Consolation,  pronounced  and  divined  by  him, 
was  a mere  matter  of  chance.  She  had  concealed  from  no  one  that 
she  was  Spanish,  and  her  maternal  language  was  yet  more  familiar  to 
her  than  Italian.  Albert,  enchanted  by  her  voice,  and  aware  of  no 
more  energetic  expression  than  that  which  expressed  the  idea  he  was 
so  anxious  about,  and  which  so  completely  engrossed  his  imagination, 
had  spoken  in  a tongue  he  knew  perfectly,  and  which  no  one  else 
about  them  understood. 

Consuelo  had  never  been  so  much  deceived  in  this  respect.  Still,  so 
fanciful  and  so  ingenious  a coincidence  had  seemed  to  her  something 
providential,  and  her  imagination  had  seized  upon  it  without  much 
examination. 

But  now  everything  was  once  more  doubtful.  Had  Albert,  in  some 
new  phase  of  his  mania,  forgotten  the  feeling  he  had  experienced  for 
her?  Was  she  henceforth  useless  for  his  relief,  powerless  for  his  wel- 
fare ? or  was  Zdenko,  who  had  appeared  so  intelligent  and  earnest  in 
seconding  Albert’s  designs,  more  hopelessly  deranged  than  Consuelo 
had  been  willing  to  suppose  ? Did  he  merely  execute  the  orders  of 
his  friend,  or  did  he  completely  forget  them,  when  he  furiously  for 
bade  to  the  young  girl  all  approach  to  the  Schreckenstein,  and  all  in 
sight  into  the  truth  ? 

“ Well,”  whispered  Amelia  on  her  return,  “ did  you  see  Albert  thii 
evening  floating  in  the  sunset  clouds?  or  will  you  make  hirh  come 
down  the  chimney  to-night  by  some  potent  spell  ? ” 

“ Perhaps  so,”  replied  Consuelo,  a little  provoked.  It  was  the  firs? 
time  in  her  life  that  she  felt  her  pride  wounded.  She  had  entered  upon 
her  enterprise  with  so  pure  and  disinterested  a feeling,  so  earnest  and 
high-minded  a purpose,  that  she  suffered  deeply  at  the  idea  of  being 
bantered  and  despised  for  want  of  success. 

She  was  dejected  and  melancholy  all  the  evening;  and  the  canonesa 
who  remarked  the  change,  did  not  fail  *o  attribute  it  to  her  fear  o i 
having  disclosed  the  fatal  attachment  which  had  been  born  in  her 
heart. 

The  canoness  was  strangely  deceived.  If  Consuelo  bad  nourished 


OON8UXLO, 


189 


the  first  seeds  of  a new  passion,  she  would  have  been  an  entire  stran- 
ger to  the  fervent  faith  and  holy  confidence  which  had  hitherto  guid- 
ed and  sustained  her.  But  so  far  from  this,  she  had  perhaps  never 
experienced  the  poignant  return  of  her  former  passion  more  strongly, 
than  under  these  circumstances,  when  she  strove  to  withdraw  herself 
from  it  by  deeds  of  heroism  and  a sort  of  exalted  humanity. 

When  she  returned  to  her  room,  she  saw  on  her  spinet  an  old  gild- 
ed book  with  the  coats  of  arms  engraved  on  it.  She  saw  at  once  it 
was  an  old  book  she  had  seen  in  Albert’s  room,  and  that  Zdenko  had 
taken  away  on  the  previous  night.  She  opened  it  at  the  place  where 
there  was  a mark.  This  was  at  the  place  where  the  psalm  Be  pro - 
fundis  clamam  ad  te  begins.  These  Latin  words  were  underlined 
with  an  ink  which  was  as  yet  scarcely  dried,  for  it  had  run  into  the 
next  page.  She  looked  through  the  whole  book,  which  was  a famous 
old  Bible,  known  as  that  of  de  Kralic’s,  and  published  in  1579.  She 
found  in  it  no  note,  no  indication  whence  it  came.  A simple  cry, 
though,  seemed  to  come  from  the  earth,  as  it  were  from  the  abyss ; 
not,  perhaps,  significative,  but  eloquent.  What  a contradiction  there 
was  between  the  formal  and  constant  vow  of  Albert  and  the  recent 
behavior  of  Zdenko. 

This  last  idea  arrested  Consuelo’s  attention.  Albert  was  sick  and 
overcome  at  the  depth  of  the  cavern,  which  she  supposed  was  beneath 
the  Schreckenstein,  and  was  perhaps  retained  there  by  the  mad  love 
of  Zdenko.  Perhaps  he  was  a victim  to  this  madman,  who  perhaps 
loved,  though  he  kept  him  his  prisoner.  Yielding  sometimes  to  his 
wish  to  return  to  the  upper  earth,  and  fulfilling  all  his  messages  to 
Consuelo,  though  sometimes  he  prevented  his  success,  by  interpos- 
ing & kind  of  indefinite  terror. 

6 Well,”  said  she,  “ I will  go,  if  I even  have  to  confront  the  ridicu- 
lous folly  of  fools  and  egotists ; I will  go,  even  if  the  person  who  calls 
me  dares  to  humiliate  me  by  his  indifference.  How,  though,  can  I be 
humiliated,  if  he  is,  perhaps,  as  mad  as  poor  Zdenko  ? I shall  only 
have  to  pity  both  of  them ; and  then,  I will  have  done  my  duty.  I 
shall  have  obeyed  the  voice  of  God  who  inspires  me,  and  his  hand, 
which  impels  me  with  irresistible  force.” 

The  feverish  state  in  which  she  had  been  for  some  days,  and  which 
since  she  had  seen  Zdenko,  had  replaced  a painful  languor,  again  ex- 
hibited itself  in  her  soul  and  body.  She  regained  all  her  power,  and 
concealing  from  Amelia  both  her  design  and  the  book,  exchanged  va- 
rious pleasant  words  with  her,  saw  her  go  to  sleep,  and  set  out  for  the 
fountain  of  tears,  with  a little  dark  lantern  she  had  procured  m that 
very  morning. 

She  waited  for  a long  time,  and  was  forced  to  go  more  Skin  :>noe 
into  Albert’s  studio,  to  revive  her  half-chilled  limbs  by  a warmer  at- 
mosphere. She  ventured  to  look  over  this  enormous  mass  of  hooka, 
not  arranged  on  shelves  as  in  a library,  but  cast  pell-mell  on  the  floor, 
as  if  in  contempt  and  disgust.  She  ventured  to  open  several  of  them. 
Almost  all  of  them  were  in  Latin,  and  Consuelo  at  once  conceived  tha 
idea  that  they  were  on  religious  controversy,  and  had  either  emanated 
from  the  Roman  church,  or  been  approved  by  it.  She  sought  to  as- 
eertain  their  titles,  but,  just  then,  heard  the  water  bubbling  in  the 
fountain.  SI  s went  thither,  putting  out  her  light,  and  hid  herself 
until  Zdenko  came.  He,  on  this  occasion,  paused  neither  in  the  pat- 
tern nor  in  the  library.  He  went  through  the  two  rooms,  and  left 
Albert’!  apartment,  as  Consuelo  ascertained  at  a later  time,  to  go  and 


190 

listen  at  the  oratory  of  Count  Christian,  to  ascertain  if  the  old 
was  awake  in  trouble,  or  sound  asleep.  This  anxiety  was  always  ex- 
erting not  a little  influence  over  him,  though  Albert,  as  we  shall  see 
by  -and-by,  had  never  thought  about  it. 

Consuelo  did  not  at  all  doubt  about  the  course  she  should  adopt: 
her  plans  had  already  been  formed.  She  had  no  longer  any  confi- 
dence either  in  the  honor  or  the  benevolence  of  Zdenko,  and  wished 
to  see  him  whom  she  considered  a prisoner,  and,  as  it  were,  under 
guard.  There  was  certainly  but  one  way  of  passing  under  ground 
from  the  castle  cistern  to  Schreckenstein.  If  this  way  was  difficult 
and  dangerous,  at  all  events,  it  was  practicable,  for  Zdenko  passed 
through  it  every  night.  At  all  events,  light  would  be  of  advantage; 
and  Consuelo  had  provided  herself  with  light,  a piece  of  steel,  wad- 
ding, and  a flint,  to  be  able  to  strike  a light  whenever  she  pleased. 
What  made  her  sure  of  reaching  Schreckenstein  in  this  manner,  was 
an  old  story  she  had  heard  told  by  the  canoness,  in  relation  to  a siege 
of  the  Teutonic  knights. 

“ The  knights,”  said  Wenceslawa,  “ had  in  their  very  refectory  a 
cistern,  through  which  they  obtained  water  from  the  neighboring 
mountain,  and  when  their  spies  went  out  to  watch  the  enemy,  they 
exhausted  the  cistern,  and  passed  through  its  subterranean  conduits 
to  a village  which  belonged  to  them.” 

Consuelo  remembered  that,  according  to  the  chronicle  of  ' the  coun- 
try, the  village  which  was  on  the  hill,  known  as  Schreckenstein,  had, 
since  the  conflagration,  depended  on  the  Giant’s  fortress,  and  had,  in 
time  of  siege,  maintained  secret  communications  with  it.  She  had, 
then,  sufficient  reason  to  search  out  this  communication  and  this 
issue. 

She  took  advantage  of  Zdenko’s  absence  to  descend  into  the  well. 
Before  she  went,  she  recommended  herself  to  God,  and  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  as  she  did  in  the  theatre  of  Saint  Samuel,  before 
she  appeared  on  the  stage,  for  the  first  time.  She  then  descended  the 

winding  staircase,  and  looked  for  the  chain,  Ac.,  which  she  had  seen 
Zdenko  hold  on  by,  taking  care,  to  avoid  vertigo,  not  to  look  down. 
She  got  hold  of  the  iron  chain  without  any  difficulty,  and  when  she 
had  done  so,  felt  herself  at  ease.  Then  she  ventured  to  look  down. 
There  was  yet  some  water,  and  this  discovery  caused  her  not  a little 
emotion.  Soon,  however,  she  recovered  her  presence  of  mind — the 
well  might  be  very  deep,  yet  the  opening  through  which  Zdenko  came 
could  not  be  very  far  down.  She  had  already  gone  down  fifty  steps, 
with  an  address  and  activity  of  which  young  girls  educated  in  draw- 
ing-rooms are  ignorant,  but  which  people  of  the  lower  orders  acquire 
in  their  childhood’s  games,  and  the  hardy  confidence  of  which  they 
preserve  through  all  their  life.  The  only  real  danger  was  in  passing 
over  damp  steps.  Consuelo  found  in  one  of  the  corners  an  old  hat 
the  Baron  Frederick  used  to  wear  when  he  hunted.  She  took  pos- 
session of  it,  and  .made  sandals  which  she  tied  on  her  shoes,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  old  cothurni . She  had  observed  that  Zdenko  was  sim- 
ilarly shod.  With  his  felt  shoes  Zdenko  passed  noiselessly  through  { 
the  corridors  of  the  castle,  and  seemed  to  glide  rather  than  walk. 
Thus  the  Hussites  had  been  wont  to  shoe  their  spies,  and  even  their 
horses,  when  they  wished  to  surprise  the  enemy..  At  the  fifty-second 
etep,  Consuelo  found  a kind  of  landing-place,  with  a stairway.  She 
efid  not  hesitate  to  enter  it,  and  to  advance,  half-bent,  into  a narrow 
•ubterranean  gallery,  dripping  with  water,  and  which  evidently  had 
bain  wrought  by  th*  *>«nd  of  man. 


She  proceeded  de  wn  it  without  any  difficulty,  foi  soirf  minutes, 
when  she  fancied  she  heard  a slight  noise  behind  her.  Zctenko,  per- 
haps, was  returning  to  the  mountain.  She  was,  however,  in  advance 
of  him,  and  increased  her  pace  to  avoid  so  dangerous  a companion. 
He  could  not  suspect  that  she  was  in  advance  of  him.  He  had  no 
reason  to  run  after  her;  and,  while  he  amused  himself  by  muttering 
alone  his  complaints  and  interminable  stories,  she  would  be  able  to 
place  herself  under  Albert’s  protection. 

The  noise  she  had  heard  increased,  and  became  like  that  of  water, 
which  growls,  struggles,  and  bursts  forth.  What  had  happened? 
Had  Zdenko  become  aware  of  her  intention  ? Had  he  pulled  up  the 
floodgate  to  destroy  her?  He  could  not  do  so,  however,  until  he  had 
passed  her,  and  now  he  was  behind  her.  This  reflection  gave  her 
very  'little  confidence.  Zdenko  was  capable  of  destroying  and  of 
drowning  himself  rather  than  betray  Albert.  Consuelo,  nevertheless, 
saw  no  floodgate,  nothing  to  restrain  the  water.  It  must,  therefore, 
come  from  below,  yet  the  noise  seemed  to  have  its  origin  behind  her. 
It  increased,  however,  came  nearer  to  her,  and  seemed  to  have  the 
voice  of  thunder. 

Suddenly  Consuelo  made  a horrible  discovery,  and  saw  that  the  gal- 
lery, instead  of  ascending,  descended,  at  first,  gently,  and  then  by  a 
more  rapid  inclination.  She  had  mistaken  her  way,  in  her  anxiety, 
and  in  the  dense  vapor  exhaled  from  the  cistern,  she  had  not  seen  the 
second  and  larger  entrance,  which  was  opposite  the  one  she  had  taken. 
She  had  gone  into  the  passage  way,  which  served  as  a kind  of  escape 
pipe,  instead  of  ascending  the  one  which  led  to  the  reservoir  or  to  the 
source.  Zdenko,  who  had  taken  the  opposite  direction,  had  quietly 
lifted  up  the  flood-gate,  and  the  cistern  was  already  filled  to  the  level 
of  the  escape  pipe.  The  water  was  already  rushing  into  .the  gallery 
where  Consuelo  was,  completely  overcome  by  amazement.  Ere  long, 
this  gallery,  which  was  so  contrived  that  the  cistern,  losing  less  water 
than  it  received,  became  filled,  and  had  something  to  spare.  In  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  escape  was  inundated,  and  began  to  roll  down 
the  declivity  The  vault,  already  humid,  bade  fair  ere  long  to  be  filled, 
and  there  was  no  prospect  of  escape.  Rapidity  of  flight  would  not  save 
the  unhappy  fugitive  from  the  torrent.  The  air  was  already  intercept- 
ed by  the  mass  of  water  which  was  rushing  down  with  a great  noise. 
A stifling  heat  interfered  with  respiration,  and  did  as  much  as  fear  and 
despair  to  suspend  animation.  Consuelo  already  heard  the  mutter- 
ing of  the  stream.  A red  foam,  the  unpromising  herald  of  the  flood 
sped  over  the  pavement,  and  preceded  the  uncertain  stere  of  the  terri- 
fied victim. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

u O my  mother!”  she  cried,  “open  thine  arms  to  receive  me!  O 
Anioleto,  I love  thee!  O my  Gcd,  receive  my  soul  inte  a bettef 
world!” 

Harf  ly  had  she  uttered  this  cry  of  agony  to  heaven,  when  she 
tripped  and  stumbled  over  some  object  in  her  path.  O surprise!  0 
divine  goodness  I It  is  a steep  and  narrow  staircase,  opening  from 


CONST7YLO. 


192 

one  of  the  wals  of  the  gallery,  and  up  which  she  rushes  the  winf 
of  fear  and  of  hope!  The  vault  rises  before  her — the  torrent  dash 
forward — strikes  the  staircase  which  Consuelo  had  just  time  to  clear 
—engulfs  the  first  ten  steps — wets  to  the  ankle  the  agile  feet  which 
«y  before  it,  and  filling  at  last  to  the  vaulted  roof  the  gallery  which 
Consuelo  had  left  behind  her,  is  swallowed  up  in  darkness,  and  falls 
with  a horrible  din  into  a deep  reservoir,  which  the  heroic  girl  jooks 
down  upon  from  a little  platform  she  has  reached  on  her  knees  and 
In  darkness. 

Her  candle  had  been  extinguished.  A violent  gust  of  wind  had 
preceded  the  irruption  of  the  mass  of  waters.  Consuelo  fell  prostrate 
upon  the  last  step,  sustained  hitherto  by  the  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion, but  ignorant  if  she  was  saved — if  the  din  of  this  cataract  was 
not  a new  disaster  which  was  about  to  overtake  her— -if  the  cold  spray 
which  dashed  up  even  to  where  she  was  kneeling,  and  bathed  her 
hair,  was  not.  the  chilling  hand  of  death  extended  to  seize  her. 

In  the  meantime,  the  reservoir  is  filled  by  degrees  to  the  height  ol 
other  deeper  waste  ways,  which  carry  still  farther  into  the  bowels  of 
the  earth  the  current  of  the  abundant  spring.  The  noise  diminishes, 
the  vapors  are  dissipated,  and  a hollow  and  harmonious  murmur 
echoes  through  the  caverns.  With  a treidbling  hand,  Consuelo  suc- 
ceeds in  relighting  her  candle.  Her  heart  beats  violently  against  her 
bosom,  but  her  courage  is  restored,  and  throwing  herself  on  her 
knees,  she  thanks  God.  Lastly,  she  examines  the  place  in  which  she 
is,  and  throws  the  trembling  light  of  her  lantern  upon  the  surround- 
ing objects.  A vast  cavern,  hollowed  by  the  hand  of  nature,  is  ex- 
tended like  a roof  over  an  abyss  into  which  the  distant  fountain 
of  the  Schreckenstein  flows,  and  loses  itself  in  the  recesses  of  the 
mountain.  This  abyss  is  so  deep  that  the  water  which  dashes  into 
it  cannot  be  seen  at  the  bottom;  but,  when  a stone  is  thrown  in,  it 
is  heard  falling  for  the  space  of  two  minutes,  with  a noise  resem- 
bling thunder.  The  echoes  of  the  cavern  repeat  it  for  a long  time, 
and  the  hollow  and  frightful  dash  of  the  water  is  heard  still  longer, 
and  might  be  taken  for  the  bowlings  of  the  infernal  pack.  At  one 
side  of  this  cavern  a narrow  dangerous  path  hollowed  out  of  the 
rocks  runs  along  the  margin  of  the  precipice,  and  is  lost  in  another 
gallery  where  the  labor  of  man  ceases,  and  which  takes  an  upward 
direction  and  leaves  the  course  of  the  current  as  it  turns  towards 
more  elevated  regions. 

This  was  the  course  Consuelo  had  to  take.  There  was  no  other : 
the  water  having  completely  filled  the  one  through  which  she  had 
come#  It  was  impossible  to  wait  in  the  cavern  for  Zdenko.  The 
dampness  was  deathly,  and  the  torch  began  to  grow  pale,  threatening 
to  go  out 

Consuelo  is  not  paralysed  by  the  horror  of  her  situation.  She  is 
well  aware  that  she  is  not  going  towards  Schreckenstein.  The  subter- 
raneous galleries  which  open  before  her  are  a sport  of  nature,  and 
lead  to  impassable  places  or  labyrinths,  an  outlet  to  which  she  can 
never  find.  She  will  yet  venture  to  enter  them,  though  only  for  tb* 
purpose  of  having  an  asylum  until  the  next  night.  On  the  next  night 
Zdenko  will  return ; he  will  shut  off  the  current,  and  the  captive  will 
be  able  to  retrace  her  steps,  and  see  the  light  of  the  stars  again. 

Consuelo  then  sought  to  penetrate  again  the  mysteries  of  the  cav- 
ern. Her  courage  had  revived  ; and,  on  this  occasion,  she  was  atten- 
tive to  all  the  accidents  of  the  soil,  and  #as  careful  to  follow  only  the 


C0N8UHL6, 


ascending  paths,  without  consenting  to  turn  aside  to  enter  the  moh 
spacious  galleries  which  she  passed.  By  doin*  so,  she  was  sure  not 
to  encounter  any  currents  of  water,  and  was  able  to  retrace  her  steps. 

She  passed  over  a thousand  obstacles : vast  stones  encumbered  her 
route ; from  timte  to  time  huge  bats,  roused  from  their  slumbers  by  the 
iight  of  the  lantern,  came  in  whole  battalions  against  her,  and  whirl- 
ed around  her  steps.  After  the  first  emotions  of  surprise,  she  felt  her 
courage  increase  at  every  new  terror.  Sometimes  she  ascended  vast 
blocks  of  stone  which  had  fallen  from  the  vaults  above,  showing  that 
other  masses  were  ready  to  follow  them,  being  now  retained  by  but 
a slight  hold  in  fissures,  twenty  feet  above  them.  Then  the  passage 
became  so  narrow,  that  Consuelo  was  forced  to  crawl  through  an  in- 
tensely close  air  to  force  her  way.  She  had  been  walking  thus  for 
about  half  an  hour,  when  having  turned  a sharp  angle,  where  her  lithe 
and  supple  body  had  much  difficulty  in  passing,  she  fell  from  Charyb- 
dis  into  Scylla,  meeting  Zdenko  face  to  face.  Zdenko  at  first  was  pet- 
rified with  surprise,  and  chilled  by  terror ; but  soon  became  indignant 
and  furious  as  we  have  already  seen  him. 

In  this  labyrinth,  amid  countless  obstacles,  by  the  quivering  light  of 
a torch,  which,  from  want  of  air,  was  almost  ready  to  go  out — it  was 
impossible  to  fly.  The  wild  eye,  the  foaming  lips  of  Zdenko,  proved 
clearly  enough  that,  on  this  occasion,  he  would  not  stop  at  menaces. 
He  at  once  became  strangely  ferocious,  and  began  to  pick  up  large 
stones,  placing  them  between  Consuelo  and  himself,  as  if  he  would 
wall  up  the  narrow  gallery  in  which  she  was.  Thus  he  was  sure  that 
if  he  did  not  empty  the  cistern  for  several  days,  she  must  die  of  hun- 
ger, precisely  as  the  drone  is  starved  to  death,  when  the  bee  closes  up 
its  cell  with  wax. 

Zdenko,  however,  made  use  of  granite,  and  worked  with  strange 
rapidity.  The  physical  power  of  this  emaciated  and  apparently  feeble 
man  was  so  perfectly  displayed,  that  Consuelo  saw  that  resistance 
would  be  impossible,  and  that  it  was  far  better  for  her  to  find  some 
means  of  escape  by-retracing  her  steps,  than  to  irritate  and  force  him 
to  extremities.  She  sought  to  soothe,  to  persuade,  and  to  subdue  him 
by  words. 

“ Zdenko,”  said  she,  44  what  are  you  at  ? Albert  will  never  forgive 
you.  He  calls  me ; I am  his  friend,  his  consolation,  and  salvation. 
You  destroy  him  when  you  destroy  me.” 

Zdenko,  afraid  of  being  persuaded,  and  determined  to  carry  out 
his  idea,  began  to  sing  in  his  own  tongue,  in  a loud  and  animated 
strain,  working  all  the  time  at  his  Cyclopian  task. 

One  stone  alone  was  required  to  complete  the  edifice.  Consuelo 
sawlhim  place  it  with  terror.  “ I shall,”  said  she,  “ never  be  able  to 
pull  down  that  wall.  To  do  it  a giant’s  hands  will  be  required.”  The 
last  stone  was  put  up,  and  she  saw  that  Zdenko  was  beginning  an- 
other, leaning  on  the  first.  He  was  erecting  a perfect  fortress  be- 
tween Albert  and  herself.  He  continued  to  sing,  and  seemed  to  take 
pleasure  in  his  toil. 

A wonderful  inspiration  at  last  took  possession  of  Consuelo.  She 
remembered  the  famous  heretical  formula  which  had  been  explained 
by  Amelia,  at  which  the  chaplain  had  been  so  much  offended. 

44  Zdenko,”  said  she,  in  Bohemian,  through  one  of  the  orifices  of 
the  disjointed  wall,  44  let  tae  one  who  has  been  injured  salute  you.” 

This  phrase  worked  on  Zdenko  like  magic.  He  let  the  enormous 
Wo ck  he  held  fall,  uttering  at  the  same  time  a deep  sigh,  and  began  to 


194 


C05«  SUfiLGU 


destroy  hi*  wall  with  more  rapidity  than  he  had  erected  it.  Ue  the# 
gave  his  hand  to  Consuelo,  and  assisted  her  to  pass  over  the  ruin 
alter  which  he  looked  attentively  at  her,  sighed  strangely,  and,  giving 
her  three  keys  tied  together  by  a ribbon,  pointed  out  the  wav  to  hei 
saying,  “ Let  the  one  who  has  been  injured  salute  you.” 

“ Will  you  not  be  my  guide  ? ” said  she.  “ Take  me  to  your  mas- 
ter.” 

Zdenko  shook  his  head,  saying,  “ I have  no  master.  I had  a friend. 
You  took  him  from  me.  Fate  is  being  fulfilled.  Go  whither  God 
directs  you.  I shall  weep  until  you  return.” 

Sitting  down  then  on  the  ruins,  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  a^d 
remained  silent. 

Consuelo  did  not  wait  to  console  him.  She  was  afraU  his  madness 
would  return;  and,  taking  advantage  of  the  moment  when  he  respect- 
ed her,  set  out  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow.  In  her  uncertain  and 
difficult  journey  Consuelo  had  not  gone  far,  for  Zdenko,  proceeding 
by  a longer  route,  but  which  was  inaccessible  to  the  water,  had  met 
her  on  the  junction  of  the  two  caverns — the  one  made  by  the  hand 
of  man — and  the  other,  strange,  distorted  and  dangerous,  surrounded 
the  castle  and  its  dependencies,  and  even  the  hill  on  which  it  was. 
Consuelo  at  this  time  had  no  doubt  that  she  was  under  the  park,  ,yet 
she  passed  through  the  gratings  in  a manner  that  all  the  keys  of  the 
canoness  could  not  prevent.  She  had  an  idea,  after  having  proceeded 
for  some  distance  on  this  route,  to  retrace  her  steps,  and  abandon  an 
enterprise,  in  carrying  out  wThich  she  had  already  met  with  so  many 
difficulties.  Perhaps  new  difficulties  yet  awaited  her.  The  ill  tempei 
a>f  Zdenko  might  be  aroused.  What  if  she  were  pursued  by  him. 
He  might  build  up  a wall  again  to  prevent  her  return.  If,  however, 
ihe  abandoned  her  plan,  and  asked  him  to  show  her  the  way  to  the 
cistern,  she  might  find  him  kind  and  gentle.  She  was  too  much  ex- 
cited, however,  to  venture  again  to  meet  this  strange  person.  Her 
dread  of  him  increased  as  she  withdrew  from  him,  and  after  having 
boldly  confronted  his  anger,  she  became  afraid  when  she  thought  of 
it.  She  fled  from  him  without  daring  to  do  any  thing  to  win  his  favor, 
and  hoped  alone  to  find  one  of  the  magic  doors,  the  keys  of  which  he 
had  given  her,  to  thus  put  a barrier  between  the  madman  and  herself. 

Was  she  not,  however,  about  to  meet  Albert,  another  madman,  whom 
she  rashly  persisted  in  thinking  gentle  and  manageable,  in  a position 
similar  to  that  of  Zdenko  towards  her  ? Over  the  whole  affair  there 
was  a thick  veil ; and  when  she  had  divested  herself  of  the  influence 
of  romantic  ideas,  Consuelo  thought  herseif  the  most  delirious  of  the 
three,  in  having  rushed  into  this  abyss  of  dangers  and  mysteries,  with- 
out being  sure  of  a favorable  result. 

She  passed  through  a spacious  cavern,  which  had  been  admirably 
wrought  by  the  iron  hands  of  the  men  of  the  middle  age.  All  the  pas- 
sages were  cut  in  regular  elliptical  arches.  The  less  compact  portions, 
or  chalky  parts  of  the  soil,  wherever  anything  might  give  way,  were 
sustained  by  well-cut  stone  columns,  which  united  by  the  key-stones  of 
this  quadrangular  vault.  Consuelo  lost  no  time  hi  admiring  this  im- 
mense work,  which  had  been  constructed  with  a solidity  that  yet  might 
defy  centuries.  She  did  not  even  ask  how  it  chanced  to  be  that  the 
present  owners  of  the  castle  were  ignorant  of  so  important  a work. 
She  might  have  explained  it,  had  sb3  remembered  that  all  the  histor- 
ical papers  of  the  family  had  beer  destroyed  more  than  a hundred 
fears  before, at  the  epoch  of  the  war  of  the  Reformation.  She  did  no* 


OOH8UELO. 


195 


however,  look  around  her*  for  she  thought  ol  nothing  but  her  own 
safety,  being  perfectly  satisfied  could  she  but  find  a plain  surface, 
healthy  air,  and  room  to  walk  in.  She  had  yet  a long  way  to  go,  this 
direct  path  being  longer  than  the  tortuous  winding  of  the  mountain 
road,  and  being  unable  to  find  the  light,  she  did  not  know  whether  the 
passage  led  to  Schreckenstein  or  to  some  far  more  distant  spot. 

After  walking  about  a quarter  of  an  hour,  she  saw  the  arches  ex- 
pand again,  and  all  traces  of  the  work  of  art  disappear.  Man,  how- 
ever, had  yet  toiled  in  these  vast  passages  and  majestic  grottoes,  but 
vegetation  having  made  its  inroads,  and  receiving  the  air  by  numerous 
fissures,  they  looked  a little  less  stem  than  the  galleries.  There  were 
a thousand  ways  to  avoid  the  pursuit  of  an  angry  enemy.  A noise 
of  rushing  water,  however,  terrified  Consuelo,  and  had  she  been  able 
4o  jest  in  such  a place,  she  would  have  confessed  that  Baron  Freder- 
ick on  his  return  from  hunting  had  never  been  so  much  afraid  of 
water  as  she  was. 

Yet  she  made  use  of  her  reason.  She  had  constantly  ascended 
since  she  left  the  precipice;  and,  unless  Zdenko  had  control  of  an  hy- 
draulic machine  of  immense  power,  he  could  not  bring  his  terrible 
auxiliary,  the  torrent,  to  act  against  her.  It  was  also  evident  that 
somewhere  or  other  she  must  meet  the  current,  the  flood-gate,  or  the 
spring  itself.  Had  she  used  more  reflection  she  would  have  been 
amazed  at  not  having  met  this  mysterious  fountain  of  tears  which 
filled  up  the  cistern.  The  reason  was,  the  fountain  had  its  origin  in 
the  hidden  veins  of  the  mountain,  and  the  gallery  ran  at  right  angles 
with  it,  only  very  near  the  cistern,  and  again  at  the  mountain, 'in  the 
same  direction  as  she  herself  had  come.  The  flood-gate  was  then  far 
behind  her,  in  the  route  Zdenko  had  gone  alone,  and  Consuelo  was 
drawing  near  the  spring  which  for  two  centuries  no  one  but  Albert 
and  Zdenko  had  seen.  She  soon  saw  the  current,  and  followed  it 
without  either  fear  or  danger. 

A path  of  fresh  sand  led  along  this  limpid  and  transparent  stream, 
which  ran  with  a cheerful  noise  through  a bed  carefully  walled  in. 
Here  human  labor  again  became  apparent.  This  path  was  graded 
with  rich  a id  fertile  soil,  for  beautiful  aquatic  plants,  enormous  wall- 
flowers, and  wild  brambles  grew  without  shelter  or  protection.  The 
external  air  penetrated  through  a multitude  of  orifices  and  crevices 
sufficiently  to  support  vegetation,  but  which  did  not  suffice  to  enable 
them  to  be  seen  from  without.  It  was  as  it  were  a natural  hot-house, 
protected  from  frost  and  snow,  but  ventilated  by  countless  loopholes. 
One  might  have  thought  these  beautiful  plants  had  been  carefully 
protected,  and  that  the  sand  had  been  heaped  up  on  the  stones,  to 
keep  them  from  injuring  the  feet.  This  really  was  the  case,  for  Zden- 
k$  had  made  Albert’s  retreat  beautiful  and  approachable. 

Oonsuelo  had  begun  to  feel  the  influence  of  a less  stern  and  poetic 
aspect  of  external  things  on  her  imagination.  When  she  saw  the  pale 
rays  of  the  moon  pass  through  the  orifices  of  the  rock  and  fall  on  the 
roivering  water,  when  she  felt  the  forest  air  from  time  to  time  fall  on 
tae  motionless  plants  which  were  above  the  reach  of  the  water,  she 
knew  she  approached  the  surface  of  the  ground  and  felt  her  strength 
revive.  She  began  to  picture  to  herself  in  the  most  lively  colors  the 
reception  which  awaited  her.  At  last  she  saw  the  path  turn  aside  from 
the  stream  and  enter  a newly-made  gallery.  She  paused  at  a little  door 
which  seemed  made  of  metal  it  w*s  so  cold,  and  around  which  a huge 
Pfj  hufife  like  a frame. 


C 0 JS  S D E L O, 


19iJ 

When  she  say  herself  at  the  termination  of  all  her  fatigue*  and 
doubts,  whei.  she  placed  her  weary  hand  on  this  last  obstacle,  which 
she  could  pass  instantly, for  she  had  a key  in  the  other  hand,Consuelo 
hesitated,  and  experienced  a timidity  which  was  less  easy  to  overcome 
than  all  her  terrors.  She  was  now  about  to  enter  a place  closed  to 
every  eye,  to  every  human  thought,  to  disturb  the  slumbers  or  medita- 
tions of  a man  whom  she  scarcely  knew,  who  was  neither  her  father, 
brother,  nor  husband — who  loved  her,  perhaps,  but  whom  she  neither 
eould  nor  would  love.  “ God,”  said  she,  “ has  led  me  hither,  amid 
the  most  wonderful  dangers.  Through  his  aid  and  protection  I am 
come  hither.  I came  with  a fervent  soul,  a resolution  full  of  charity 
a tranquil  breast,  pure  conscience,  and  a heart  entirely  sincere.  Per 
haps  death  awaits  me,  yet  I am  not  afraid.  My  life  is  lonely,  and  - 
shall  not  be  sorry  to  lose  it.  That  I proved  but  a few  moments  ago 
and  only  an  hour  since,  I saw  myself  devoted  to  a horrible  death  with 
a calmness  which  amazed  myself.  This  is,  perhaps,  a grace  God  vouch- 
safes me  at  my  last  hour.  I shall,  it  may  be,  fall  beneath  the  blow  of 
a madman,  yet  I march  to  that  catastrophe  with  the  firmness  of  a 
martyr.  I have  an  ardent  faith  in  the  Eternal,  and  feel  that  if  I perish 
here  the  victim  perhaps  of  useless  devotion,  deeply  religious  though  it 
be,  I will  be  rewarded  in  a happier  existence.  What  delays  me  ? Why 
do  I experience  inextricable  trouble,  as  if  I were  about  to  err,  anj 
blush  before  him  I would  save  ? ” 

Thus  Consuelo,  too  modest  to  comprehend  her  very  modesty,  strug- 
gled against  herself,  and  looked  on  the  delicacy  of  her  emotion  almost 
as  a crime.  It,  however,  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  she  might  be  ex- 
posed to  a danger  greater  than  death.  Her  chastity  could  not  con- 
ceive the  idea  of  her  becoming  the  victim  of  a madman’s  brutal  pas- 
sions. She  became,  however,  instinctively  afraid  at  seeming  to  obey  a 
less  exalted  and  less  divine  sentiment  than  that  which  animated  her. 
She  put  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  made  more  than  ten  efforts  before  she 
could  determine  to  turn  it.  An  overpowering  fatigue,  an  excessive 
weakness  in  her  whole  frame,  destroyed  her  resolution,  at  the  very  mo- 
ment she  was  about  to  be  rewarded — on  earth,  by  the  performance  of 
a noble  act  of  charity!— -in  heaven,  by  a sublime  death! 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

Nevertheless,  her  part  was  taken.  She  had  received  three  keys, 
whence  she  judged  that  she  had  three  doors  to  open  and  two  apart- 
ments to  traverse,  before  reaching  that  in  which  she  supposed  Albert 
to  be  a prisoner.  She  had,  therefore,  time  enough  to  stop,  in  case  her 
strength  should  fail  her.  She  entered  a vaulted  chamber,  containing 
no  other  furniture  than  a bed  of  dry  heather,  covered  with  a sheep- 
skin. A pair  of  old-fashioned  shoes,  however,  in  a most  remarkatxi 
state  of  dilapidation,  served  to  indicate  to  her  that  this  was  Zdenko’s 
bed-chamber.  She  also  recognised  the  small  fruit-basket  which  she 
had  left  on  the  Stone  of  Terror,  and  which,  after  a lapse  of  two  days, 
had  at  length  disappeared.  She  determined  now  to  open  the  second 
door,  after  having  carefully  closed  the  first;  for  she  still  reflected  with 
terror  on  the  possible  return  of  the  fierce  possessor  of  that  strange 


CONSCELO, 


19T 


abode.  The  sccoi.d  apartment  into  which  she  passed  was  vaulted  lik* 
the  first,  but  the  wall  s were  hung  with  matting  and  with  wicker-work, 
•tuffed  with  moss.  A stove  diffused  a pleasant  warmth  through  the 
chamber,  and  it  was,  beyond  doubt,  from  its  chimney  pierced  through 
the  solid  rock  that  the  dreary  light  which  Consuelo  had  seen  on  the 
summit  of  the  Schreckenstein  was  produced.  Albert’s  bed,  iike  that 
of  Zdmko’s,  was  no  more  than  a mass  of  dry  leaves  and  grass ; but 
Zdenko  had  covered  it  with  a superb  bear-skin,  in  spite  of  the  abso- 
lute equality  on  which  Albert  insisted  in  their  relations,  and  to  which 
Zdenko  agreed  on  all  respects,  where  it  did  not  clash  with  the  extreme 
love  he  bore  him,  and  the  anxious  preference  which  he  himself 
awarded  to  his  patron.  In  this  apartment  Consuelo  was  received  by 
Cynabre,  who  when  he  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  had  taken  his 
post  on  the  threshold  with  a menacing  eye  and  erected  ear.  But 
Cynabre  had  been  educated  by  his  master  not  as  a guardian,  but  as  a 
/riend.  He  had  been  prohibited  from  his  earliest  youth  to  bay  or 
howl,  so  that  he  had  lost  the  natural  habit  of  his  species.  Still,  had 
any  one  approached  Albert  with  evil  intentions,  he  would  have  recov- 
ered his  voice ; had  any  one  attacked,  he  would  furiously  have  defend- 
ed him.  But,  prudent  and  circumspect  as  a hermit,  he  never  made 
the  slightest  noise  without  being  sure  of  his  ground,  and  without  hav- 
ing carefully  examined  persons  and  scented  their  garments.  He  ap- 
proached Consuelo  with  a look  almost  as  intelligent  as  that  of  human- 
ity, smelt  her  dress  for  some  time,  as  well  as  her  hand,  in  which  she 
had  been  holding  Zdenko’s  keys,  and,  as  if  completely  satisfied  by 
that  circumstance,  abandoned  himself  to  the  friendly  recollections  he 
had  retained  of  her,  and,  rearing  himself  up  on  his  hind  legs,  laid  his 
great  hairy  paws  on  her  shoulder,  while  he  swept  the  ground  with  his 
fine  tail  in  mute  and  stately. joy.  After  that  grave  and  decorous 
greeting,  he  returned  and  lay  down  on  the  corner  of  the  bear-skin 
which  covered  Albert’s  bed,  and  stretched  himself  out  on  it  with 
something  of  the  lassitude  of  old  age,  but  not  without  watching 
every  movement  of  Consuelo  with  steady  eyes. 

Before  she  dared  to  approach  the  third  door,  Consuelo  cast  a glance 
over  the  arrangement  of  that  hermitage,  in  order  to  derive  from 
it  if  possible,  some  information  as  to  the  moral  state  of  its  occupant. 
She  found  in  it  no  trace  either  of  frenzy  or  despair.  The  greatest 
cleanliness,  and  even  a sort  of  order,  reigned  throughout  all  its  details. 
There  was  a cloak  together  with  a change  of  garments  hanging  on 
the  horns  of  the  auroch — curiosities  which  Albert  had  brought  home 
with  him  from  the  interior  of  Lithuania,  and  which  here  answered  the 
purpose  of  clothes-hooks.  His  numerous  books  were  all  arranged  on 
shelves  of  unplaned  timber,  supported  by  rustic  branches,  artistically 
interwoven  by  an  intelligent  hand.  The  table  and  two  chairs  were 
of  the  same  material  and  workmanship.  An  herbal  and  some  books 
of  old  music,  unknown  entirely  to  Consuelo,  with  titles  in  the  Scla- 
vonic tongue,  completed  the  evidences  of  the  calm  and  peaceful  life 
led  by  the  studious  anchorite.  An  iron  lamp,  curious  only  from  its 
antiquity,  hung  from  the  roof,  burning  with  a clear  light  in  the  eter- 
nal gloom  of  that  mournful  sanctuary. 

Consuelo  further  remarked  that  there  was  nothing  like  a weapon  in 
the  place.  For,  notwithstanding  the  taste  of  the  magnates  of  that 
land  for  the  chase,  and  the  objects  of  luxury  which  accompany  it,  Al- 
bert possessed  neither  gun  nor  knife;  and  his  old  dog  had  never 
learned  the  grand  science,  on  which  account  Cynabre  had  ever  bee© 


198 


CONSUELO, 


an  object  of  contempt  and  pity  to  the  Baron  Frederick.  Albert  had 
a perfect  horror  of  bloodshed,  and,  although  he  appeared  to  enjoy  lift 
less  than  any  other  person,  he  possessed  a religious  and  unlimited  re- 
spect for  the  idea  of  life  in  general.  He  could  neither  himself  inflict 
death,  nor  look  upon  its  infliction,  even  on  the  lowest  animals  of  cre- 
ation. He  would  have  loved  all  natural  sciences,  but  he  had  stopped 
short  at  botany  and  mineralogy.  Entomology  seemed  even  too  cruel  a 
science  for  his  prosecution,  for  he  could  not  endure  to  sacrifice  even 
an  insect  to  his  curiosity. 

Consuelo  was  aware  of  these  peculiarities,  and  she  recalled  them 
all  to  mind  as  she  looked  on  the  various  attributes  of  Albert’s  inno- 
cent pursuits.  “ No,  I will  not  be  fearful,”  she  said  to  herself,  “ of  a 
being  so  gentle  and  pacific.  This  is  rather  the  cell  of  a saint  than  the 
dungeon  of  a madman.”  But  the  more  she  argued  with  herself  on 
the  nature  of  his  mental  malady,  the  more  she  felt  embarrassed  and 
agitated.  She  half  regretted  that  she  had  not  found  him  ill  or  de- 
ranged, and  the  very  certainty  that  she  was  about  to  visit  an  actual 
man  made  her  but  hesitate  the  more. 

She  mused  for  a few  moments,  undecided  how  she  should  announce 
herself,  when  the  sound  of  an  admirable  instrument  fell  upon  her 
ear.  It  was  a stradiarius,  uttering  an  air  of  grand  and  mournful  sub- 
limity, under  the  touch  of  a pure  and  scientific  hand.  Never  had 
Consuelo  heard  so  perfect  a violin,  never  an  amateur  whose  style  was 
so  simple  yet  so  touching.  The  music  was  unknown  to  her,  but  she 
judged  from  its  singular  and  artless  character  that  it  was  older  than 
the  oldest  music  she  had  ever  heard.  She  listened  in  ecstacy,  and 
now  understood  how  it  was  that  Albert  had  so  perfectly  compre- 
hended her  on  hearing  her  sing  one  single  passage.  It  was  that  he 
had  himself  the  revelation  of  true  and  grand  music.  He  might  not 
be  thoroughly  scientific  at  all  points — he  might  not  possess  all  the 
dazzling  resources  of  the  art,  but  he  had  in  him  the  divine  inspiration, 
the  intelligence  and  love  of  the  beautiful.  When  he  had  ended,  Con- 
suelo was  entirely  reassured,  and  animated  by  a more  lively  sympathy, 
was  on  the  point  of  knocking  at  the  door  which  alone  separated  them, 
when  it  opened  slowly,  and  the  young  count  made  his  appearance, 
with  his  head  bent  forward,  his  eyes  lowered,  and  his  violin  and  bow 
hanging  from  his  nerveless  hands.  His  pallor  was  alarming,  his 
clothes  were  in  disorder,  such  as  Consuelo  had  never  seen  before. 
His  abstracted  air,  his  sad  and  depressed  carriage,  the  despairing 
carelessness  of  his  movements,  announced,  if  not  total  derangement, 
at  least  the  last  disorder  and  abandonment  of  human  will  and  energy. 
He  might  have  been  taken  for  one  of  those  dumb  and  senseless  phan- 
toms in  whom  the  Sclavonic  races  believe,  who  are  seen  at  night  to 
enter  houses  mechanically  and  to  perform  actions  without  end  or  ob- 
ject, obeying,  as  if  by  instinct,  the  habits  of  their  past  life,  without 
recognising  or  even  seeing  their  terrified  friends  or  servants,  who 
either  fly  from  them  or  gaze  at  them  in  silence,  frozen  by  fear  and  as- 
tonishment 

Such  was  Consuelo  as  she  beheld  Count  Albert,  and  perceiving  that 
fee  beheld  her  not,  although  she  was  within  two  paces  of  him.  Cyna- 
bre  had  arisen  from  his  bed,  and  was  licking  the  hand  of  his  master, 
who  spoke  to  him  kindly  in  the  Bohemian  tongue ; then  following  the 
dog  with  his  eyes,  as  he  proceeded  to  offer  his  quiet  caresses  to  Con- 
suelo, still  without  lifting  his  head,  he  looked  attentively  at  her  feet 
which  were  covered  at  this  moment  bv  shoes  something  like  these  oi 


30KSCEL0, 


199 


Zdenko,  and  then  spoke  s;>me  more  Bohemian  words,  which  she  did 
not  understand,  but  which  appeared  to  be  an  interrogation,  and  which 
terminated  with  her  own  name. 

Seeing  him  in  this  state,  Consuelo  felt  all  her  timidity  vanish.  Ab- 
sorbed now  entirely  in  compassion,  she  saw  only  the  heart- sick  invalid, 
who  called  for  her,  yet  failed  to  recognise  her  when  present ; and,  lay- 
ing her  hand  firmly  and  confidently  on  the  young  man’s  shoulder,  said 
to  him  in  Spanish,  in  her  pure  and  thrilling  tones,  “Consuelo  is 
here.” 


CHAPTER  XLUL 

Scarcely  had  Consuelo  mentioned  her  name,  before  Count  Albert 
raising  his  eyes  and  looking  her  full  in  the  face,  altered  his  attitude 
and  expression  altogether.  He  let  fall  his  precious  violin  on  the 
ground,  as  recklessly  as  though  he  knew  not  the  use  of  it,  and  clasp- 
ing his  hands  together  with  an  air  of  the  deepest  tenderness,  and  most 
respectful  grief,  “ It  is  thou,  then,  whom  I see  at  length  in  this  place 
of  suffering  and  exile,  O my  unhappy  Wanda!”  he  exclaimed,  utter- 
ing a sigh  which  seemed  to  rend  his  heart  asunder.  “ Dear,  dear,  un- 
happy sister!  unfortunate  victim,  whom  I avenged  too  late,  and  Whom 
I failed  to  defend ! Ah ! thou  knowest,  then,  that  the  wretch  who  out- 
raged thee  perished  in  tortures,  and  that  my  hand  was  bathed  ruth- 
lessly in  the  blood  of  his  accomplices.  I opened  the  deepest  vein  of 
the  accursed  church,  I washed  away  thy  affront  and  my  own,  and  that 
of  my  people,  in  rivers  of  gore — what  wouldst  thou  more,  unquiet 
and  vindictive  spirit  ? The  time  of  zeal  and  wrath  hath  passed  away 
the  time  of  penitence  and  expiation  is  at  hand.  Ask  from  me  tears 
and  prayers,  but  ask  for  no  more  blood.  Oh ! I am  henceforth  sick 
of  blood.  I will  shed  none  of  it — no,  not  a drop!  John  Ziska  will 
no  longer  fill  his  chalice  save  with  tears  inexhaustible  and  sighs  of 
bitterness.” 

As  he  spoke  thus,  with  bewildered  eyes,  and  features  animated  by 
sudden  enthusiasm,  Albert  moved  around  Consuelo,  and  recoiled  from 
her  in  a sort  of  horror,  at  every  movement  she  made  to  stop  his  fan- 
tastical adjuration. 

Consuelo  had  no  need  of  long  reflection  to  comprehend  the  turn 
which  his  insanity  had  now  taken.  She  had  heard  the  history  of 
John  Ziska  often  enough  to  know  that  the  sister  of  that  formidable 
fanatic,  being  a nun  before  the  outbreak  of  the  Hussite  war.  had  been 
outraged  by  an  atrocious  monk,  and  that  the  whole  life  of  Ziska 
had  been  but  one  act  of  long  and  solemn  vengeance  for  that  crime. 
At  this  moment  Albert,  drawn  back  by  I know  not  what  transition 
of  ideas,  to  his  prevailing  mania,  believed  himself  .John  Ziska,  and 
was  addressing  her  as  the  shade  of  his  unhappy  sister  Wanda. 

She  resolved  not  to  contradict  him  too  suddenly  in  his  illusion,  but 
said  to  him  gently,  “ Albert,  for  thy  name  is  no  longer  John,  as  mine 
is  no  longer  Wanda,  look  at  me  steadfastly,  and  see  that  I am  changed 
in  character  and  countenance  even  as  thou  art.  I come  to  reminj 
thee  of  that,  of  which  thou  hast  but  now  reminded  me.  Human 
is  more  than  satisfied,  and  it  is  the  day  of  heavenly  justice 


200 


C058UIIO, 


which  I now  announce  to  thee.  Goa  commands  us  to  pardon  and 
forget;  these  fatal  recollections,  this  pertinacious  reso.ution  to  exer- 
cise in  thy  person  faculties  which  he  grants  not  to  other  men,  this 
fierce  and  perilous  memory  which  thou  dost  retain  of  thy  past  exis- 
tences, God  now  withdraws  from  thee,  offended,  because  thou  hast 
abused  them.  Dost  thou  hear  me,  Albert,  and  dost  thou  now  com- 
prehend me?” 

“ Obi  my  mother,”  cried  Albert,  pale  and  trembling,  falling  on  his 
knees  and  gazing  at  Consuelo  with  extraordinary  dismay,  “ I hear 
you,  and  comprehend  your  words.  I see  that  you  have  transformed 
yourself,  in  order  to  convince  and  subdue  me.  No:  you  are  no  longer 
the  Wanda  of  Ziska,  the  outraged  virgin,  the  weeping  nun.  You  are 
the  Wanda  of  Paraclialitz,  whom  men  have  named  the  Countess  of 
Rudolstadt,  and  who  didst  bear  the  wretch  whom  men  now  call  Al- 
bert.” 

“ It  is  not  by  the  caprice  of  men  that  you  are  so  called,”  replied 
Consuelo,  fervently -f  “ for  it  is  God  who  caused  you  to  live  again,  under 
new  circumstances,  and  with  new  duties.  These  duties  you  know 
not,  Albert,  or  if  you  do  know,  you  despise  them.  You  reascend  the 
ladder  of  ages  with  an  unholy  pride ; you  aspire  to  pry  into  the  secrets 
of  destiny ; you  think  to  equal  yourself  to  a God,  embracing  at  a glance 
the  present  and  the  past.  This  is  the  truth.  It  is  I who  tell  it  to  you. 
It  is  faith  which  inspires  me  to  do  so.  This  retrogressive  thought  is 
impious — it  is  a crime,  a madness.  This  supernatural  memory  which 
you  affect  is  an  illusion.  You  have  mistaken  vague  and  fugitive 
gleams  for  a certain  lights  and  your  own  imagination  has  made  a 
mockery  of  you.  Your  own  pride  has  built  an  edifice  of  chimeras, 
when  you  attribute  to  yourself  the  great  deeds  of  your  heroic  ances- 
try. Beware  that  you  become  not  that  which  you  believe  yourself  to 
be.  Fear,  lest  to  punish  you,  Eternal  Wisdom  open  not  your  eyes  for 
one  instant,  and  suffer  you  to  behold  in  your  own  past  life  crimes  less 
illustrious  and  subjects  of  remorse  less  glorious  than  those  of  which 
you  dare  to  boast  yourself.”  . 

Albert  listened  to  this  harangue  with  a sort  of  timid  self-restraint, 
his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  and  his  knees  pressed  hard  upon  the 
ground. 

“ Speak— -speak ! ” he  cried,  “ O voice  of  heaven  which  I hear,  yet 
fail  to  recognise,”  he  murmured  in  half-smothered  accents.  “ If  you 
be  the  angel  of  this  mountain,  if  you  be,  as  I believe  you  are,  the  ap- 
parition which  has  appeared  to  me  so  often  on  the  Stone  of  Terror, 
speak,  command  my  will,  my  conscience,  my  imagination.  You  will 
know  that  I seek  for  the  light  with  anguish ; and,  if  I lose  my  wTay  in 
the  darkness,  it  is  through  the  earnestness  with  which  I strive  to  dis- 
sipate that  darkness,  in  order  to  meet  you.” 

u A little  humility,  a little  confidence  and  submission  to  the  decrees 
of  that  wisdom  which  is  incomprehensible  to  men,  these  are  for  you, 
Albert,  the  road  to  truth.  Renounce  in  your  soul,  renounce  firmly, 
once,  and  that  forever,  the  desire  of  knowing  yourself  beyond  the  ex- 
istence of  this  transitory  life  which  is  imposed  on  you,  and  you  will 
again  become  acceptable  to  God,  useful  to  other  men,  and  at  peace 
with  yourself.  Descend  from  your  haughty  science,  and  without  los- 
ing faith  in  your  immortality,  without  doubting  the  divine  goodness 
which  pardons  the  past  and  protects  the  future,  attach  yourself  to 
the  attempt  of  rendering  humane  and  pleasant  this  present  life 
which  you  despise,  when  you  ougf it  rather  to  respect  it,  and  to  devote 


0en  strno, 


201 


k>  !t  entire  yburs«_f,  with  all  your  energy,  your  self-denial  and  your 
charity.  Now,  Albert,  look  at  me,  and  let  your  eyes  be  unsealed.  1 
am  neither  your  mother  nor  your  sister,  I am  a friend  sent  to  you  by 
heaven,  and  led  hither  by  miraculous  ways  to  reconduct  you  from  the 
regions  of  pride  and  insanity.  Look  at  me,  and  tell  me,  in  your 
heart,  and  on  your  conscience,  who  am  I?” 

Albert,  trembling  and  embarrassed,  raised  his  head,  and  looked  at 
her  once  more,  but  with  less  wildness  and  alarm  than  before.  “ You 
compel  me  to  cross  abysses,”  he  said.  “ You  confound  my  reason  by 
the  depth  of  your  worSs,  which  I believed  superior  to  my  misfortune 
to  that  of  all  other  men,  and  you  command  me  to  comprehend  the 
present  time  and  the  things  of  humanity.  I cannot  do  it.  In  order 
to  lose  the  memory  of  certain  phases  of  my  life,  I must  undergo  ter- 
rible crises ; and  in  order  to  discover  the  sentiment  of  a new  phase,  I 
must  transform  myself  by  efforts  which  lead  me  to  agony.  If  you 
command  me  by  virtue  of  a power  which  I feel  superior  to  my  own, 
to  assimilate  my  thoughts  to  yours,  I must  obey ; but  I know  the  ter- 
ror of  these  struggles,  and  I know  that  death*  is  at  the  end  of  them. 
Have  pity  on  me,  you  who  govern  me  with  a sovereign  spell,  aid  me 
or  I fall.  Tell  me  who  you  are,  for  I know  you  not.  I remember 
having  seen  you,  I know  not  of  what  use  you  are,  yet  here  you  stand 
before  me  like  some  mysterious  statue,  the  type  of  which  I vainly 
seek  in  my  recollections.  Help  me ! help  me ! or  I feel  that  I die.” 

As  he  spoke  thus,  Alberts  face,  which  had  at  first  been  flushed  with 
a feverish  return  of  animation,  again  became  fearfully  pale.  He 
stretched  his  hands  out  for  a moment  towards  Consuelo,  and  then 
lowered  them  to  the  ground,  as  if  to  save  himself  from  falling  under  a 
weakness  which  he  could  not  resist.  Consuelo,  who  began  by  degrees 
to  comprehend  the  nature  of  his  mental  malady,  felt  herself  animated 
with  renewed  strength,  and  inspired  as  it  were  by  a novel  intelligence 
and  power.  She  took  his  hands,  gently  compelled  him  to  arise,  and  led 
him  to  a seat  beside  the  table.  He  let  himself  sink  upon  it,  overpow- 
ered by  ineffable  weariness,  and  bowed  forward  as  if  he  were  on  the 
point  of  fainting.  The  strife  of  which  he  spoke  was  but  too  real.  Al- 
bert had  the  faculty  of  recovering  his  reason  and  banishing  the  sug- 
gestions of  that  delirium  which  suffused  his  brain ; but  he  only  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  so,  through  efforts  which  exhausted  all  his  powers. 
When  this  reaction  occurred  spontaneously,  he  found  himself  refresh- 
ed, and  as  it  were  renewed.  But  when  he  brought  it  on  by  a resolu- 
tion of  his  own  will,  his  body  failed  under  the  crisis,  and  all  his  limbs 
were  seized  with  catalepsy.  Consuelo  understood  what  was  passing 
within  him.  “ Albert,”  said  she,  laying  her  cold  hand  on  his  burning 
head,  “ I know  you,  and  that  suffices.  I take  an  interest  in  you,  ana 
that  ought  to  satisfy  you  for  the  present.  I forbid  you  to  make  any 
effort  to  recognise  or  speak  to  me  at  present ; listen  to  me  only,  ana 
do  not  even  exert  yourself  too  much  to  understand  me,  I only  ask  of 
you  passive  submission  and  a total  abandonment  of  all  reflection. 
Can  you  not  descend  into  your  heart,  and  there  concentrate  the  whole 
of  your  existence.” 

“ Oh ! how  much  good  you  do  me,”  exclaimed  Albert.  “ Speak  to 
me  yet  again — speak  to  me  ever  thus.  You  hold  my  s in  your 
hands.  Whoever  you  be,  keep  it ; suffer 't  not  to  escape,  or  it  will  go 
knock  at  the  gates  of  eternity,  and  there  will  perish.  u Teii  me,  who 
are  you?  Tell  me  quickly;  and  if  I understand  not,  explain  to  me; 
for,  in  my  own  despite,  I reek  and  am  agitated.” 


J 


202 


CONStELO. 


“ I am  Consuelo,”  replied  the  young  girl ; “ and  you  know  It,  sine* 
you  converse  with  me  instinctively  in  a language  which  I alone  of  *1] 
your  frienas  can  understand.  I am  the  friend  whom  you  have  long 
expected,  and  whom  you  recognised  that  day  when  I was  singing. 
From  that  day,  you  forsook  your  family  and  concealed  yourself  here, 
and  you  summoned  me  hither  several  times  by  means  of  Zdenko ; 
while  Zdenko,  though  to  a certain  degree  he  obeyed  your  commands, 
would  not  conduct  me  hither.  I have  come,  however,  through  a 
thousand  dangers.” 

“ You  could  not  have  come  if  Zdenko  had  not  permitted  you,”  re- 
plied Albert,  raising  his  body,  which  had  rested  heavily  and  faintly  on 
the  table.  “ You  are  a dream,  I perceive  it  clearly,  and  what  I hear 
you  say,  is  the  mere  effect  of  my  own  imagination.  Oh  I my  God  1 
you  excite  me  with  false  joys,  and  on  a sudden  the  disorder  and  inco- 
herency of  my  dreams  reveal  themselves,  even  to  myself,  and  I find 
myself  alone — alone  in  the  world — with  my  despair  and  my  madness. 
Oh ! Consuelo,  Consuelo ! — fatal,  yet  delicious  dream ! — where  is  the 
being  who  assumes  your  name,  and  sometimes  wears  your  likeness  ? 
No!  save  in  myself,  you  have  no  existence;  and  it  is  my  delirium 
only  which  gave  you  birth.” 

Albert  sank  down  again  on  his  extended  arms,  which  became  as 
cold  and  stiff  as  marble.  Consuelo  saw  that  he  was  fast  falling  into 
his  lethargic  crisis,  and  at  the  same  time  felt  herself  so  much  ex- 
hausted, and  so  near  to  fainting,  that  she  doubted  her  power  to  con- 
quer the  crisis.  She  strove,  however,  to  revivify  the  hands  of  Albert 
between  her  own,  which  were,  in  truth,  hardly  more  living  than  her 
patient’s.  “ Heaven ! ” she  said,  in  a faltering  voice,  and  writh  a bro- 
ken spirit,  “ aid  two  unhappy  beings  who  lack  the  power  to  assist  one 
another!”  She  felt  herself  alone,  shut  up  with  a half-dying  man, 
half  dead  herself,  and  with  no  hope  of  assistance  for  either,  unless  it 
were  from  Zdenko,  whose  return  she  looked  for  with  far  more  of 
alarm  than  hope. 

Her  prayer,  however,  appeared  to  strike  Albert  with  an  unexpected 
emotion.  “ Some  one,”  said  he,  endeavoring  to  raise  his  bewildered 
head,  “some  one  is  praying  near  me.  I am  not  alone,”  he  added, 
looking  at  Consuelo’s  hand,  which  he  held  firmly  grasped  between  his 
own.  “ Oh ! aiding  hand — mysterious  pity — human,  fraternal  sym- 
pathy— you  render  my  agony  less  agonizing — you  fill  my  heart  with 
gratitude.”  And  he  pressed  his  icy  lips  on  the  hand  of  Consuelo,  and 
remained  long  in  that  attitude. 

An  emotion  of  modesty  recalled  Consuelo  to  the  consciousness  of 
life.  She  dared  not  withdraw  her  hand  from  the  poor  wretch ; but 
divided  between  her  embarrassment  and  her  exhaustion,  unable  to 
hold  herself  any  longer  erect,  she  was  forced  to  lean  upon  him,  and 
to  rest  her  other  hand  upon  Albert’s  shoulder. 

“ I feel  myself  revived,”  cried  Albert,  after  a few  moments  had 
elapsed.  “ I fancy  that  I am  in  the  arms  of  my  mother.  Oh ! my 
aunt,  Wenceslawa,  if  this  be  you,  pardon  me  that  I have  forgotten 
you — you,  and  my  father,  and  all  ify  family,  whose  very  names  had 
fallen  from  my  memory.  I return  to  you;  leave  me  not,. but  restore 
to  me  Consuelo,  Consuelo — her  whom  I so  long  awaited — her  whom  I 
found  at  last,  only  to  love  again ; for  without  her  I cannot  breathe.” 

Consuelo  would  have  spoken  to  him ; but  in  proportion  as  Albert’* 
memory  and  life  ssemed  to  return,  in  like  porportion  did  Consuelo’* 
warn  td  fail  her.  Such  a succession  of  fears,  fatigues,  emotion* 


205 


CONS  1 71  L o. 

efforts,  almost  superhuman,  had  broken  her  down  so  that  she  could 
struggle  against  them  no  longer.  The  words  died  on  her  lips,  she 
felt  her  knees  give  way  under  her,  and  her  eyes  lose  their  vision.  She 
dropped  on  her  knees *by  Albert’s  side,  and  her  fainting  head  fell  heav  - 
ly  against  the  young  man’s  bosom.  Then  Albert,  starting  as  if  from 
a dream,  saw  her,  recognised  her,  uttered  a loud  cry,  and,  recovering 
himself,  caught  her  energetically  in  his  arms.  Through  the  veils  or 
death  which  appeared  to  be  closing  over  her  eyelids,  Consuelo  beheld 
the  joy  which  beamed  from  all  his  features,  and  was  not  alarmed  by 
it;  for  it  was  a chaste  and  holy  joy.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  fell  into 
that  state  of  languid  unconsciousness  which  is  neither  sleep  nor  wak- 
ing, but  a sort  of  indifference  and  insensibility  to  all  things  present. 


CHAPTER  XLIY. 


So  soon  as  she  recovered  the  use  of  her  faculties,  before  she  wai 
yet  able  to  lift  her  eyelids,  finding  herself  seated  on  a hard  bed,  she 
endeavored  to  collect  her  memories.  But  her  prostration  had  been 
•o  complete  that  her  powers  returned  to  her  but  slowly,  and,  as  if  the 
•urn  of  the  fatigues  and  emotions  which  she  had  endured  for  so  long  a 
time  had  completely  overpowered  her,  she  sought  in  vain  to  remember 
what  had  befallen  her  since  leaving  Venice.  Her  very  departure  from 
that  adopted  country,  in  which  her  days  had  flowed  away  so  softly, 
appeared  to  her  a dream ; and  it  was  a consolation  to  her — though,  alas  I 
too  short — to  be  able  to  doubt  for  an  instant  her  exile  and  the  misfor- 
tunes which  had  led  to  it.  She  persuaded  herself,  then,  that  she  was 
still  in  her  poor  chamber  in  the  Corte  Minelli,  on  her  mother’s  pallet, 
and  that,  after  a violent  and  bitter  scene  with  Anzoleto,  some  confused 
memory  of  which  floated  through  her  spirit,  she  was  recovering  life 
and  hope,  finding  him  by  her  side,  hearing  his  interrupted  breath,  and 
the  sweet  words  which  he  whispered  in  her  ear.  A languid  and  de- 
licious joy  filled  her  heart  at  the  idea,  and  she  made  an  effort  to  rise 
and  look  at  her  repentant  lover,  and  offer  him  her  hand.  But  the  hand 
which  she  encountered  was  a cold  and  strange  one ; and  in  lieu  of 
the  smiling  sun  which  she  was  wont  to  see  shining  redly  through  her 
white  curtains,  she  saw  only  a sepulchral  light,  streaming  downward 
from  a dark  vault,  and  floating  through  a damp  and  misty  atmosphere ; 
she  felt  the  skin  of  some  wild  beast  stretched  out  beneath  her,  and, 
in  the  midst  of  an  appalling  trance,  she  saw  the  pale  face  of  Albert 
leaning  over  her  like  a spectre. 

Consuelo  believed  that  she  had  gone  down  alive  into  the  tomb,  and 
fell  back  on  the  bed  of  dry  leaves  with  a groan  of  horror.  It  re- 
quired yet  that  several  minutes  should  pass  before  she  understood  where 
she  indeed  was,  and  to  the  care  of  how  fearful  a host  she  was  en- 
trusted. Fear,  which  up.to  this  moment  the  enthusiasm  of  her  de- 
votedness had  coihbatted  and  conquered,  took  possession  of  her  to 
such  a degree,  that  she  was  afraid  to  open  her  eyes,  lest  they  should 
meet  some  hideous  spectacle — the  preparations  of  a death-bed,  or  a 
grave  open  before  her.  She  felt  something  upon  her  brow,  and  raised 
her  hand  to  it.  It  was  a wreath  of  foliage  with  which  Albert  had 
crowned  h*r;  she  took  it  off  and  looked  at  it,  it  was  a cypress 


904 


eONSUBLO. 


“I  thought  thee  dead!— O,  my  soul!— 0,  my  Consolation ! " said 
Albert,  kneeling  beside  her,  “ and  I wished  before  following  thee  to 
the  grave  to  adorn  thee  with  the  symbols  of  hymeneals.  The  dark  cy- 
presses wort  the  only  branches  from  which  my  hand  could  pluck  the  bri- 
dal wreath.  Behold  it ! Refuse  it  not ! If  we  must  die  here,  let  me 
•wear  to  thee  that,  restored  to  life,  never  could  I have  any  bride  but 
thee,  and  that  I die  with  thee,  united  to  thee  by  an  indissoluble 
oath ! ” 

“Affianced!  united!”  exclaimed  Consuelo,  in  terror.  “Who  is  t, 
then,  that  has  pronounced  this  decree  ? Who,  then,  has  celebrated 
these  hymeneals  ? ” 

“ It  is  destiny,  my  angel,”  replied  Albert,  with  inexpressible  sweet- 
ness and  melancholy.  “ Dream  not  that  you  can  escape  from  it.  It 
is  a strange  destiny  for  thee — a stranger  yet  for  me.  You  compre- 
hend me  not,  Consuelo,  and  yet  you  must  learn  the  truth.  You  foiv 
bade  me  but  now  to  look  back  into  the  past;  you  interdicted  to  me 
the  memory  of  those  by-gone  days,  which  are  called  the  night  of 
ages.  My  whole  being  obeyed  you,  and  I know  no  more  of  my  ante* 
rior  existences ; but  my  present  life  I have  interrogated — I know  it — 
I have  it  all  before  me  in  one  eye-glance ; it  appeared  before  me  in- 
stantaneously, while  you  appeared  to  be  reposing  in  the  arms  of 
death.  Your  destiny,  Consuelo,  is  to  belong  to  me,  and  yet  you  will 
never  be  mine.  You  love  me  not;  you  will  never  love  me  as  I love 
you.  Your  love  for  me  is  only  charity,  and  the  devotedness  of  hero- 
ism. You  are  a saint  whom  God  has  sent  to  me,  and  to  me  you  will 
never  be  a woman.  I must  die  consumed  by  a love  which  you  can- 
not partake ; and  yet,  Consuelo,  you  will  be  my  bride,  as  you  are  now 
my  betrothed,  whether  we  perish  here,  and  your  pity  consent  to  give 
me  that  title  of  husband,  which  no  kiss  will  ever  ratify ; or  whether 
we  revisit  the  sun,  and  thy  conscience  compel  you  to  accomplish  the 
designs  of  God  toward  me.” 

“ Count  Albert,”  said  Consuelo,  endeavoring  to  arise  from  that  bed, 
covered  with  a black  bear-skin,  which  resembled  a pall ; “ I know  not 
whether  it  is  the  enthusiasm  of  a gratiude  far  too  lively  for  its  object, 
or  the  consequences  of  your  delirium,  which  lead  you  to  speak  thus. 
I have  no  longer  the  power  to  combat  your  illusions,  and  if  they  are 
now  to  be  turned  against  me — against  me,  who  have  come  at  the  risk 
of  my  life  to  succor  and  console  you— I feel  that  it  is  not  in  my  power 
to  dispute  with  you,  either  my  liberty  or  my  life.  If  the  sight  of  me 
irritate  you,  and  God  forsake  me,  let  the  will  of  God  b6  done!  You, 
who  think  you  know  so  much,  must  know  how  my  life  is  poisoned, 
and  with  how  little  regret  I should  surrender  it.” 

“ I know  that  you  are  miserable,  my  poor  saint!  I know  that  you 
wear  on  your  brow  a crown  of  thorns,  which  I cannot  tear  from  it. 
The  cause  and  the  consequence  of  thy  misfortunes,  I know  not,  and 
I ask  them  not.  But  I should  love  thee  much  less,  and  I should  be 
much  less  worthy  of  thy  compassion,  if  on  the  day  when  I first  met 
thee,  I had  not  perceived  the  sadness  which  fills  thy  soul  and  steeps 
*ihy  life  in  bitterness.  What  can  you  fear  from  me,  Consuelo?  You 
who  are  so  firm  and  prudent ; you  to  whom  God  has  inspired  word* 
which  subjugated  me  and  conquered  me  in  an  instant.  You  must  feel 
a strange  falling  off  in  the  light  of  your  reason  and  your  faith,  since 
you  so  dread  your  friend,  your  servant,  and  your  slave?  Return  to 
me,  my  angel — look  at  me.  Behold  me  at  your  feet,  for  I am 
prostrate  in  tha  dust  What  sacrifice  do  you  require  of 


urn  to  ^ 
i even  fl 

"Lj 


CONSUELO, 


205 


ftftth  must  I offer  you?  1 cat  promise  to  obey  you  in  til  things,  Yea 
Consuelo,  I could  become  a sea -controlled  man,  submissive,  and  to  all 
appearance  as  reasonable  as  ether  men.  Hitherto  I have  never  had 
the  power  to  do  that  which  I desire  to  do;  but  henceforth  all  that 
thou  wouldst  of  me  shall  be  granted.  Perhaps  I may  die  in  the  act 
of  transforming  myself  in  accordance  to  your  desire,  but  it  is  my  part 
to  tell  you  that  my  life  would  always  have  been  poisoned,  and  that  I 
should  not  regret  it  so  long  as  I lost  it  for  you.” 

“ Generous  and  noble  Albert,”  said  Consuelo*  “^explain  yourself 
more  clearly,  and  let  me  understand  the  depths  of  your  impenetrable 
spirit.  In  my  eyes  you  are  the  greatest  of  men,  and  from  the  first 
day  of  my  beholding  you,  I conceived  a respect  for  you,  which  I had 
no  cause  to  dissemble.  I was  always  told  that  you  are  mad — I always 
disbelieved  it.  All  that  was  said  to  me  of  you,  added  to  my  esteem 
for  you.  Still  1 was  compelled  to  admit,  that  you  were  overpowered 
by  a deep  and  fantastical  moral  disease.  I persuaded  myself,  pre- 
sumptuously perhaps,  but  sincerely,  that  I could  assuage  this  disease. 
You  led  me  yourself  to  believe  so.  I came  to  seek  you  out,  and  now 
you  speak  to  me  in  a manner  that  would  fill  me  with  "conviction,  re- 
spect, and  veneration  for  you  and  for  myself,  to  a degree  for  which  I 
cannot  account,  if  you  did  not  mingle  with  your  arguments  strange 
ideas,  intermingled  with  a spirit  of  fatalism,  of  which  I never  could 
be  a partaker.  May  I say  all  that  I would  say,  without  wounding 
your  feelings  ? ” 

“ Speak  what  you  will,  Consuelo ; I know  beforehand  all  that  you 
would  say  to  me,”  replied  Albert. 

“ I will  speak,  then,  for  I had  promised  myself  so  to  do  All  those 
who  love  you,  despair  of  you.  It  is  their  duty,  they-imagine,  to  re- 
spect— or,  in  other  words,  to  deceive  your  delirium.  They  are  afraid 
of  exasperating  you,  by  suffering  you  to  perceive  that  they  are  aware 

of  it — that  they  it,  and  fear  it.  I have  no  such  terrors,  nor  have 
I the  least  hesitation  in  asking  you — ‘ Wherefore,  being  so  wise,  you 
act  at  times  like  a madman?  wherefore,  being  so  good,  you  commit 
acts  of  ingratitude  and  pride?  wherefore,  being  so  enlightened  and  so 
religious,  you  abandon  yourself  to  the  reveries  of  a diseased  and  de- 
spairing spirit?  wherefore,  in  conclusion,  I find  you  here  buried  in  a 
melancholy  cavern,  afar  from  your  family,  which  seeks  you  and  de- 
plores your  absence ; afar  from  your  equals,  who  love  you  with  ardent 
affection;  afar  from  me,  last  of  all,  whom  you  summon,  and  whom 
you  say  that  you  love,  and  who  has  found  you  by  a miraculous  exer- 
tion of  will,  and  by  divine  protection?  ’ ” 

“ You  ask  me  the  secret  of  my  life,  the  key- word  of  my  destiny,  and 
you  know  it  better  than  I do  myself.  Consuelo,  it  is  from  you  that  I 
expected  the  revelation  of  my  existence,  and  you  question  me  of  it. 
Oh!  I understand  you;  you  desire  to  lead  me  to  confession;  to  an  effi- 
cacious repentance,  to  a victorious  resolution.  You  shall  be  obeyed. 
But  it  is  not  now  that  I can  recognise  myself,  judge  myself,  transform 
myself,  at  a moment’s  notice.  Give  me  a few  days,  give  me  at  least  a 
few  hours  to  learn  myself,  and  thereafter  to  teach  you,  whether  I am 
indeed  a madman,  or  whether  I enjoy  my  reason.  Alas!  alas!  both 
are  true,  and  it  is  my  misfortune  that  I doubt  it.  But  to  ascertain 
whether  I must  entirely  lose  my  judgment  and  my  reason,  or  whether 
I can  triumph  over  the  demon  which  besets  me  —this  is  what  I cannot 
make  out  at  this  instant.  Have  pity  on.  me,  Consuelo ; I am  still  over- 
powered by  emotions  too  strong  *or  my  control.  I am  Ignorant  what 


eONBUKLO. 


206 

I have  said  to  yon;  I know  not  how  many  hours  have  elapsed  since 
you  have  been  here ; I know  not  how  you  can  be  here  at  all  without 
Zdenko,  who  would  not  bring  you  hither;  I know  not  where  my 
thoughts  were  wandering  when  you  entered!  Alas!  I know  not  1k*w 
many  centuries  I have  been  shut  up  here,  struggling  with  unheard  of 
sufferings,  against  the  plague  which  devours  me.  Of  these  sufferings 
themselves,  I have  no  consciousness  when  they  are  once  overpast;  I 
only  feel  the  fatigue  which  remains  after  them ; a stupor  and  a sort  of 
terror,  which  I strive  in  vain  to  banish.  Consuelo,  suffer  me  to  for 
get,  if  it  be  but  for  a few  minutes.  My  ideas  will  become  more  lumi 
nous,  my  tongue  will  be  relaxed.  I promise  you,  I swear  it  to  you 
Give  me  only  by  degrees  this  light  of  reality,  which  has  been  so  long 
closed  against  me  by  hideous  darkness,  and  which  my  eyes  cannot,  as 
yet,  endure.  You  have  commanded  me  to  concentrate  my  whole  life 
in  my  heart.  I remember  that  you  told  me  that,  for  from  that  instant 
date  my  memory  and  my  reason.  Well ! that  one  word  has  poured  an 
angelic  calmness  into  my  bosom.  My  heart  now  lies  entire  and  un- 
wounded,  although  my  reason  slumbers  yet.  I could  still  bewilder 
myself,  and  terrify  you  by  my  reveries.  I will  henceforth  live  only  in 
my  feelings,  which  to  me  will  be  a life  unknown ; but  it  will  be  a life 
of  delight,  if  I could  but  abandon  myself  to  it  without  displeasing 
you.  Ah ! Consuelo,  wherefore  did  you  command  me  to  concentrate 
my  whole  life  within  my  heart:  explain  yourself.  Suffer  me  to  have 
no  object  in  life  save  yourself  only.  To  occupy  myself  with  you 
alone — to  see,  to  comprehend  you  only — in  one  word,  to  love  you. 
Oh,  Heaven ! I love — I love  a being  similar  to  myself ; I love  with  all 
the  power  of  my  existence ; I lavish  on  her  all  the  ardor,  all  the  sin- 
cerity, all  the  sanctity  of  my  affection.  It  is  surely  happiness  enough 
for  me  to  be  allowed  this,  and  I will  ask  no  more.” 

“Be  it  so,  dear  Albert.  Repose  your  diseased  spirit  in  that  sweet 
sentiment  of  peaceable  fraternal  tenderness.  God  is  my  witness  that 
you  may  do  so  without  fear  or  danger,  for  I feel  toward  you  a fervent 
friendship,  and  a sort  of  veneration  which  no  frivolous  conversations 
or  vain  reasonings  have  power  to  shake.  You  have  understood  by 
some  mysterious  and  strange  instinct,  that  my  life  also  is  broken  by 
sorrow.  You  said  so,  and  it  is  truth  from  on  high,  that  must  have  in- 
spired you  with  the  knowledge.  I could  not  love  you  otherwise  than 
as  a brother ; yet,  say  not  that  it  is  charity  or  pity  only  which  is  my 
guide.  If  humanity  and  compassion  gave  me  the  courage  to  come 
hither,  a sympathy,  nay  a particular  esteem  for  your  virtues,  give  me 
also  the  courage  and  the  right  to  speak  to  you  as  I do.  Abjure,  then, 
now  and  forever,  the  illusion  under  which  you  labor  concerning  the 
nature  of  the  sentiment  you  feel  toward  me.  Speak  to  me  of  love  no 
more,  nor  of  marriage.  My  past  years,  my  memories,  would  rendar 
that  impossible,  and  the  difference  of  our  conditions.  If  you  return 
to  such  ideas,  you  will  render  my  devotion  to  you  rash,  perhaps  im- 
proper. Let  us  seal  this  engagement  which  I now  make,  to  be  your 
sister,  your  friend,  your  consoler,  by  a sacred  oath.  Swear  to  me  that 
you  will  never  look  for  aught  else  in  me,  and  that  you  will  never  love 
me  otherwise.” 

“ Generous  woman,”  said  Albert,  growing  pale,  “you  reckon  much 
on  my  courage,  and  much  on  my  love,  when  you  ask  such  a pledge  of 
me.  I might  be  base  enough  to  speak  falsely,  nay,  to  swear  falsely 
should  you  require  it  of  me.  Bvt  you  will  not  require  it,  Consuelo. 
You  wifi  perceive  that  this  were  but  to  agitate  me  anew.  Be  not 


C O N S tJ  E L 0. 


207 


therefor®,  as  to  how  I love  you ; I scarcely  know  that  myself,’ 
only  I feel  that  to  withdraw  the  name  of  love  from  the  sentiment 
which  I feel  were  blasphemy.  I accept  your  pity,  your  care,  your  sis- 
terhood, your  passionless  and  peaceful  attentions.  I will  not  have  so 
much  as  one  expression  of  the  face  or  a glance  of  the  eye,  that  should 
offend  you.  Be  at  ease,  therefore,  my  sister,  and  my  consoler.  I 
swear  to  be  your  brother,  and  your  servant.  But  ask  no  more  of  me. 
I will  be  neither  importunate,  nor  indiscreet.  It  will  suffice  me  that 
i you  know  you  may  command  me,  and  govern  me  despotically,  not  as 
a brother  is  governed,  but  as  a being  who  is  given  up  to  you,  wholly 
and  f:?  ever.” 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

Fob  the  moment  Consuelo  was  satisfied  with  this  language,  though 
it  did  not  leave  her  without  much  apprehension  for  the  future.  The 
almost  fanatical  self-denial  of  Albert,  evidently  had  its  source  in  a 
deep  and  real  passion,  of  the  truth  of  which  his  serious  countenance 
and  solemn  speech  left  no  possible  doubt.  Consuelo,  though  deeply 
touched,  was  greatly  disturbed,  and  asked  herself  secretly  how  she 
eould  devote  herself  to  the  care  of  a man  so  deeply  and  unreservedly 
attached  to  herself.  She  had  never  thought  lightly  of  such  relations, 
and  she  saw  at  a glance  that  Albert  was  not  a man  with  whom  any 
woman  could  incur  them  without  the  risk  of  perilous  consequences. 
She  did  not  doubt  either  his  good  faith,  or  his  plighted  word,  but  she 
saw  that  the  calmness  to  which  she  had  hoped  to  restore  him,  was  not 
compatible  with  ties  of  this  nature.  She  offered  him  her  hand  with 
a sigh,  but  she  continued  for  a few  moments  in  deep  thought;  at  last 
she  said,  raising  her  eyes  from  the  ground,  “ Albert,  you  do  not  know 
me  when  you  ask  me  to  undertake  such  a charge.  No  woman  could 
undertake  it,  but  one  capable  of  abusing  it.  I am  neither  proud,  nor 
a coquette,  and  I do  not  believe  myself  to  be  vain ; but  I have  no  de- 
sire for  domination.  Your  love  would  flatter  me,  could  I return  it, 
and  if  it  were  so  I would  tell  you  forthwith.  To  afflict  you,  in  your 
present  condition  by  reiterated  assurances  to  the  contrary  is  an  act 
of  cold-blooded  cruelty  which  you  ought  to  spare  me,  and  which  is, 
nevertheless,  forced  upon  me  against  my  will.  Pity  me,  then,  for  be- 
ing forced  to  distress  you,  perhaps  to  offend  you,  and  at  a moment 
when  I would  give  up  my  own  life  to  restore  you  to  health  and  to 
happiness.” 

“ I know  it,  high-souled  maiden,”  said  Albert,  with  a melancholy 
smile.  “You  are  so  good,  so  great,  that  you  would  give  your  life  for 
the  meanest  creature ; but  I know  that  your  conscience  will  bend  to 
20  one.  Do  not  then,  fear  to  offend  me  in  displaying  this  sternness 
which  I admire — this  stoical  coldness,  which  your  virtue  maintains 
along  with  the  most  moving  pity.  It  is  not  in  your  power  to  afflict 
ane,  Consuelo.  I am  not  the  sport  of  illusion ; I am  accustomed  to 
bitter  grief;  my  life  has  been  made  up  of  painful  sacrifices.  Do  not 
then  treat  me  as  a visionary,  as  a being  without  heart,  and  without 
•elf-respect,  in  repeating  what  I already  know,  that  you  will  never 
Mi  me  Consuelo,  I am  acquainted  with  the  circumstances  of  you* 


208 


eONBUBLO, 


life,  although  I know  neither  your  name,  nor  family,  nor  any  Itnpor* 
tant  fact  concerning  you.  I know  the  history  of  your  soul ; the  rest 
does  not  concern  me.  You  loved,  you  still  love,  and  you  will  always 
love,  one  of  whom  I know  nothing,  whom  I do  not  wish  to  know 
and  with  whom  I shall  never  compete.  But  know,  Consuelo,  tnat 
you  shall  never  be  his,  or  mine,  or  even  your  own.  God  has  reserved 
fbr  you  a separate  existence,  of  which  the  events  are  hidden  from  me; 
but  of  which  I foresee  the  object  and  end.  The  slave  and  victim  of 
vour  own  greatness  of  soul,  you  will  never  receive  in  this  life,  other 
recompense  than  the  consciousness  of  your  own  power  and  goodness. 
Unhappy  in  the  world’s  estimation,  you  will  yet  be  the  most  serene 
and  the  most  fortunate  of  human  creatures,  because  you  will  ever  be  the 
best  and  the  most  upright;  for  the  wicked  and  the  base, dearest  sister, 
are  alCne  to  be  pitied,  and  the  words  of  Christ  will  remain  true  as 
long  as  men  continue  blind  and  unjust: — ‘ Happy  are  those  who  are 
persecuted ; happy  those  who  weep,  and  who  labor  in  trouble.’  ” 

The  power  and  dignity  which  were  at  this  moment  stamped  upon 
the  lofty  and  majestic  forehead  of  Albert,  exercised  over  Consuelo  so 
great  a fascination  that  she  forgot  the  part  of  proud  sovereign  and 
austere  friend,  which  she  had  imposed  upon  herself,  to  bow  to  the 
spell  of  this  man’s  influence,  so  inspired  by  faith  and  enthusiasm. 
She  supported  herself  with  difficulty,  still  overwhelmed  with  fatigue 
and  emotion,  and  trembling  from  excess  of  weariness,  she  sank  on 
her  knees,  and  clasping  her  hands,  began  to  pray  fervently  and  aloud: 
“ If  thou,  my  God,”  she  exclaimed,  “ dost  put  this  prophecy  in  the 
mouth  of  a saint,  thy  holy  will  be  done ! In  my  infancy  I besought 
from  thee  an  innocent  and  childlike  happiness;  but  thou  hast 
reserved  for  me  happiness  under  a severe  and  rude  form,  which  I am 
unable  to  comprehend.  Open  thou  mine  eyes — grant  me  an  humble 
and  contrite  heart.  I am  willing,  oh,  my  God,  to  submit  to  this  des- 
stiny,  which  seems  so  adverse,  and  which  so  slowly  revealed  itself,  and 
only  ask  from  thee  that  which  any  of  thy  creatures  is  entitled  to  ex- 
pect from  thy  loving  justice,  faith,  hope,  and  charity.” 

While  praying  thus,  Consuelo  was  bathed  in  tears,  which  she  did 
not  seek  to  restrain.  After  such  feverish  agitation,  this  paroxysm 
served  to  calm  her  troubled  feelings,  while  it  weakened  her  yet  more. 
Albert  prayed  and  wept  along  with  her,  blessing  the  tears  which  he 
had  so  long  shed  in  solitude,  and  which  now  mingled  with  those  of  a 
pure  and  generous  being. 

“ And  now,”  said  Consuelo,  rising,  “ we  have  thought  long  enough 
of  what  concerns  ourselves;  it  is  time  to  think  of  others,  and  to  recol- 
lect our  duties  to  them.  I have  promised  to  restore  you  to  your  fam- 
ily, who  already  mourn  and  pray  for  you  as  for  one  dead.  Do  you  not 
desire,  my  dear  Albert,  to  restore  joy  and  peace  to  your  afflicted  rela- 
tives ? Will  you  not  follow  me  ? ” 

“ So  soon  1 ” exclaimed  the  young  count  in  despair ; “ separate  so 
soon,  and  leave  this  sacred  asylum,  where  God  alone  is  with  us — thia 
cell,  which  I cherish  still  more  since  you  have  appeared  to  me  in  it— 
this  sanctuary  of  a happiness  which  I shall  perhaps  never  again  ex- 
perience— to  return  to  the  false  and  cold  world  of  prejudices  and  cus- 
toms. Ah  I not  yet,  my  soul,  my  life ! Suffer  me  to  enjoy  yet  a day, 
yet  an  age  of  delight.  Let  me  here  forget  that  there  exists  a world 
full  of  deceit  and  sorrow,  which  pursues  me  like  a darK  and  troubled 
dream;  permit  me  to  return  by  slow  degrees  to  what  men  call  reason. 
I do  not  yet  feel  strong  enough  to  bear  the  light  of  their  son,  and  the 


OONSUBIO, 


209 


mctacle  of  their  madness.  I require  to  gaze  upon  your  face  and 
Jaten  to  your  voice  yet  longer.  Besides,  I have  never  left  my  retreat 
from  a sudden  impulse,  or  without  long  reflection — my  endeared,  yet 
frightful  retreat,  this  terrific  yet  salutary  place  of  expiation,  whither 
I am  accustomed  to  hasten  as  with  a wild  joy,  without  once  looking 
back,  and  which  I leave  with  doubts  but  too  well  founded,  and  ^ith 
lasting  regret.  You  know  not,  Consuelo,  what  powerful  ties  attach 
me  to  this  voluntary  prison — you  know  not  that  there  is  here  a second 
self,  the  true  Albert,  who  will  not  leave  it — a self  which  I ever  find 
when  I return,  and  yet  which  besets  me  like  a spectre  when  I leave 
it.  Here  I have  conscience,  faith,  light,  strength— in  a word,  life.  In 
the  world  there  are  fear,  madness,  despair — passions  which  sometimes 
invade  my  peaceful  seclusion,  and  engage  with  me  in  a deadly  strug- 
gle. But  behold ! behind  this  door  there  is  an  asylum  where  I can 
subdue  them  and  become  myself  again.  I enter  sullied  with  their 
contact,  and  giddy  from  their  presence— -I  issue  purified,  and  no  one 
knows  what  tortr  res  purchase  this  patience  and  submission.  Force 
me  not  hence,  Consuelo,  but  suffer  me  gradually  and  by  prayer  to  wean 
my  attachment  from  the  place.” 

“ Let  us  the/*  enter  and  pray  together,”  said  Consuelo ; “ we  shall 
set  out  immediately  afterwards.  Time  flies;  the  dawn  is  perhaps 
already  near,  They  must  remain  ignorant  of  the  path  which  leads 
to  the  castle , they  must  not  see  us  enter  together ; for  I am  anxious 
not  to  betray  the  secret  of  ^our  retreat,  and  hitherto  no  one  suspects 
my  discover  y.  I do  not  wish  to  be  questioned,  or  to  resort  to  false- 
hoods. I must  be  able  to  keep  a respectful  silence  before  your  rela- 
tives, and  suffer  them  believe  that  my  promises  were  but  presen- 
timents and  dreams.  Should  I be  seen  to  return  with  you,  my 
absence  would  seem  disobedience;  and  although,  Albert,  I would 
brave  everything  for  you,  I would  not  rashly  alienate  the  confidence 
and  affection  of  your  family.  Let  us  hasten  then ; I am  exhausted 
with  fatigue,  and  if  I remain  here  much  longer  I shall  lose  all  my  re- 
maining strength,  so  necessary  for  this  new  journey.  We  shall  pray 
and  then  depart.” 

u Exhausted,  say  you?  Repose  here,  then,  beloved  one.  I will 
guard  you  religiously,  or  if  my  presence  disturbs  you,  you  shall  shut 
me  up  in  the  adjacent  grotto ; olose  this  iron  door  between  us,  and 
whilst,  sunk  in  slumber,  you  forget  me,  I shall,  until  recalled  by  you* 
pray  for  you  in  my  church .” 

“ But  reflect  that  while  you  are  praying  and  sunk  in  repose,  your 
father  suffers  long  hours  of  agony,  pale  and  motionless  as  I once  saw 
him,  bowed  down  with  age  and  grief,  pressing  with  feeble  knees  the 
floor  of  his  oratory,  and  apparently  only  awaiting  the  news  of  your 
death  to  resign  his  last  breath.  And  your  poor  aunt’s  anxiety  will 
throw  her  into  a fever,  incessantly  ascending,  as  she  does,  the  highest 
towers  of  the  castle,  vainly  endeavoring  to  trace  the  paths  to  the 
mountain,  by  one  of  which  it  is  supposed  you  departed.  This  very 
morning  the  members  of  your  family,  when  they  assemble  together 
in  the  chateau,  will  sorrowfully  accost  each  other  with  .fruitless  in- 
quiries and  conjectures,  and  again  separate  at  night  with  despair  and 
anguish  in  their  hearts.  Albert,  you  do  not  love  your  relatives,  other- 
wise you  would  not  thus,  without  pity  or  remorse,  permit  them  to 
suffer  and  languish.” 

“ Consuelo ! Consuelo ! ” exclaimed  Albert,  as  if  awaking  from  a 
dream,  “ do  not  speak  to  me  thus ; your  words  torture  me.  What 


COHBUELO. 


210 

crime  Lave  I committed  ? — what  disasters  have  I caused? — Why  an 
my  friends  thus  afflicted  ? How  many  hours  have  passed  since  I laA 
them  ? ” 

“ You  ask  how  many  hours!  Ask  rather  how  many  days — how 
many  nights — nay,  how  many  weeks ! ” 

“Days I — nights!  Hush!  Consuelo,  do  not  reveal  to  me  the  fall 
extent  of  my  misfortune*  I was  aware  that  I here  lost  correct  idea* 
of  time,  and  that  the  remembrance  of  what  was  passing  on  the  earth 
did  not  descend  with  me  into  this  tomb ; but  I did  not  think  that  the 
duration  of  this  unconsciousness  could  be  measured  by  days  and 
weeks.,, 

“ Is  it  not,  my  friend,  a voluntary  obliviousness?  Nothing  in  this 
place  recalls  the  days  which  pass  away  and  begin  again:  eternal  dark- 
ness here  prolongs  the  night.  You  have  not  even  a glass  to  reckon 
the  hours.  Is  not  this  precaution  to  exclude  all  means  of  measuring 
time,  a wild  expedient  to  escape  the  cries  of  nature  and  the  voice  of 
conscience  ? ” 

“ I confess  that  when  I come  here,  I feel  it  requisite  to  adjure  every- 
thing merely  human.  But  O God ! I did  not  know  that  grief  and 
meditation  could  so  far  absorb  my  soul  as  to  make  long  hours  appear 
like  days,  or  days  to  pass  away  as  hour*.  What  am  I,  and  why  have 
they  never  informed  me  of  this  sad  change  in  my  mental  organiza- 
tion?” 

u This  misfortune  is,  on  the  contrary,  a proof  of  great  intellectual 
power,  but  diverted  from  its  proper  use,  and  given  up  to  gloomy  rev- 
erie. They  try  to  hide  from  you  the  evils  of  which  you  are  the  causa 
They  respect  your  sufferings  whilst  they  conceal  their  own.  But  in 
my  opinion  it  was  treating  you  withdittle  esteem;  it  was  doubting  the 
goodness  of  your  heart.  But  Albert  I do  not  doubt  you,  l conceai 
nothing  from  you.” 

“ Let  us  go,  Consuelo,  let  us  go,”  said  Albert,  quickly  throwing  hi* 
cloak  over  his  shoulders.  “Iam  a wretch ! I have  afflicitJ  my  fa- 
ther whom  I adore,  my  aunt  whom  I dearly  love.  I am  unworthy  to 
behold  them  again.  Ah!  rather  than  again  be  guilty  of  so  much 
cruelty,  I would  impose  upon  myself  the  sacrifice  of  never  revisiting 
this  retreat.  But,  no:  once  more  I am  happy,  for  I have  found  a 
friend  in  you,  Consuelo,  to  direct  my  wandering  thoughts  and  restore 
me  to  my  former  self.  Some  one  has  at  length  told  me  the  truth,  and 
will  always  tell  it  to  me.  Is  it  not  so,  my  dear  sister  ? ” 

* Always,  Albert;  I swear  to  you  that  you  shall  ever  hear  the  truth 
from  me.” 

“ Power  divine ! and  the  being  who  comes  to  my  aid  is  she  to  whom 
alone  I can  listen— whom  alone  I can  believe.  The  ways  of  God  are 
known  but  to  himself.  Ignorant  of  my  own  mental  alienation,  I 
have  always  blamed  the  madness  of  others.  Alas,  Consuelo!  had  my 
noble  father  himself  told  me  of  that  which  you  have  just  disposed,  I 
would  not  have  believed  him.  But  you  are  life  and  truth ; you  can 
bring  conviction,  and  give  to  my  troubled  soul  that  heavenly  peace 
which  emanates  from  yourself.” 

* Let  us  depart,”  said  Consuelo,  assisting  him  to  fasten  his  cloak, 
which  his  trembling  hand  could  not  arrange  upon  his  shoulders. 

“ Yes,  let  us  go,”  said  he,  gazing  tenderly  upon  her  as  she  fulfilled 
this  friendly  office ; “ but  first  swear  to  me,  Consuelo,  that  if  I return 
hither  you  will  not  abandon  me,  swear  that  you  will  come  to  seek  me, 
were  it  only  to  overwhelm  me  with  reproaches— to  call  me  ingrate, 


0OV8USLO. 


211 


parricide  — and  to  tell  me  that  I am  nn worthy  of  yonr  solicitude. 
Oh  ! leave  me  not  a prey  to  myself  now  that  you  see  the  influence 
you  have  over  my  actions,  and  that  a word  from  your  lips  persuades 
and  heals,  where  a century  of  meditation  and  prayer  wovdd  fail.” 
“And  will  you,  on  your  part,”  replied  Consuelo,  leaning  on  hi* 
shoulder,  and  smiling  expressively,  “ swear  never  to  return  hither  with- 
out me  ? ” 

“ Will  you  indeed  return  with  rael”  he  rapturously  exclaimed, look- 
ing earnestly  in  her  face,  but  not  daring  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms; 
“only  swear  this  to  me,  and  I will  pledge  myself  by  a solemn  oath  never 
to  leave  my  father’s  roof  without  ur  command  or  permission.” 

“ May  God  hear  and  receive  our  mutual  promise ! ” ejaculated  Con- 
suelo, transported  with  joy.  “ We  will  come  back  to  pray' in  your 
church ; and  you,  Albert,  will  teach  me  to  pray,  as  no  one  has  taught 
me  hitherto;  for  I have  an  ardent  desire  to  know  God.  You,  my 
friend,  will  reveal  heaven  to  me,  and  I when  requisite  will  recall  your 
thoughts  to  terrestrial  things  and  the  duties  of  human  life.” 

“ Divine  sister ! ” exclaimed  Albert,  his  eyes  swimming  in  tears  of 
delight,  “ I have  nothing  to  teach  you.  It  is  you  who  must  be  the 
agent  in  my  regeneration.  It  is  from  you  I shall  learn  all  things,  even 
prayer.  I no  longer  require  solitude  to  raise  ray  soul  to  God.  I no 
longer  need  to  prostrate  myself  over  the  ashes  of  my  fathers,  to  com- 
prehend and  feel  my  own  immortality.  To  look  on  you  is  sufficient  to 
raise  my  soul  to  heaven  in  gratitude  and  praise.” 

Consuelo  drew  him  away,  she  herself  opening  and  closing  the  doors, 
“Here,  Cynabre!”  cried  Albert  to  his  faithful  hound,  giving  him  a 
lantern  of  better  construction  than  that  with  which  Consuelo  was  fur- 
nished, and  better  suited  to  the  journey  they  were  about  to  undertake. 
The  intelligent  animal  seized  the  lamp  with  an  appearance  of  pride 
and  satisfaction,  and  preceded  them  at  a measured  pace,  stopping  when 
his  master  stopped,  increasing  or  slackening  his  speed  as  he  did,  and 
sagaciously  keeping  the  middle  of  the  path,  in  order  to  preserve  his  pre- 
cious charge  from  injury  by  contact  with  the  rocks  or  brushwood. 

Consuelo  walked  with  great  difficulty,  and  would  have  fallen 
twenty  times  but  for  Albert’s  arm,  which  every  moment  supported 
and  raised  her  up.  They  once  more  descended  together  the  course 
of  the  stream,  keeping  along  its  fresh  and  verdant  margin. 

“Zdenko,”  said  Albert,  “delights  in  tending  the  Naiad  of  these 
mysterious  grottoes.  He  smooths  her  bed  when  encumbered  as  it 
often  is  with  gravel  and  shells;  he  fosters  the  pale  flowers  which 
•pring  up  beneath  her  footsteps,  and  protects  them  against  her  kisses, 
which  are  sometimes  rather  rude.” 

Consuelo  looked  upwards  at  the  sky  through  the  clefts  of  the  rock, 
and  saw  a star  glimmer  in  its  blue  vault.  “ That,”  said  Albert,  “ ii 
Al debaron,  the  star  of  the  Zingari.  The  day  will  not  dawn  for  an 
hour  yet.” 

“ That  is  my  star,”  replied  Consuelo,  “ for  I am,  my  dear  Count, 
though  not  by  race,  by  calling,  a kind  of  Zingara.  My  mother  bore  no 
other  name  at  Venice,  though  in  accordance  with  her  Spanish  pre- 
judices, she  disclaimed  the  degrading  appellation.  As  for  myself  I am 
stil.  known  in  that  country  by  the  name  of  the  Zingarella.” 

“Are  you  indeed  one  of  that  persecuted  race,”  replied  Albert;  “ if 
10, 1 should  love  you  yet  more  than  I do,  were  that  possible.” 
Consuelo,  who  had  thought  it  right  to  recall  Count  Kudolstadt  to 
tM  disparity  of  thai*  birth  and  condition,  recollected  what  Amalia 


CONSUBLO, 


215 

had  said  of  Albert’s  sympathy  for  the  wandering  poor  and,  fearing  leal 
•he  had  involuntarily  yielded  to  an  instinctive  feeling  of  coquetry,  aha 
kept  silence. 

But  Albert  thus  interrupted  it  in  a few  moments : 

“ What  you  have  just  told  me,”  said  he,  “ awakens  in  me,  I know 
not  by  what  association  of  ideas,  a recollection  of  my  youth,  childish 
enough  it  is  true,  but  which  I must  relate  to  you : for  since  I have 
seen  you,  it  has  again  and  again  recurred  to  my  memory.  Leas 
more  on  me,  dear  sister,  whilst  I repeat  it.” 

“ I was  about  fifteen,  when,  returning  late  one  evening  by  one  of 
the  paths  which  border  on  the  Schreckenstein,  and  which  wind 
through  the  hills  in  the  direction  of  the  castle,  I saw  before  me  a tall 
thin  woman,  miserably  clad,  who  carried  a burthen  on  her  shoulders, 
and  who  paused  occasionally  to  seat  herself,  and  to  recover  breath. 
I accosted  her.  She  was  beautiful,  though  embrowned  by  the  sun 
and  withered  by  misery  and  care.  Still  there  was  in  her  bearing, 
mean  as  was  her  attire,  a sort  of  pride  and  dignity,  mingled,  it  is  true, 
with  an  air  of  melancholy.  When  she  held  out  her  hand  to  me,  she 
rather  commanded  pity  than  implored  it.  My  purse  was  empty.  I 
entreated  her  to  accompany  me  to  the  castle,  where  she  could  have 
help,  food,  and  shelter  for  the  night. 

“ i I would  prefer  remaining  here,’  replied  she,  with  a foreign  accent 
which  I conceived  to  be  that  of  the  wandering  Egyptians,  for  I was 
not  at  that  time  acquainted  with  the  various  languages  which  I after- 
wards learned  in  my  travels.  i I could  pay  you,’  she  added,  ‘ for  the 
hospitality  you  offer,  by  singing  songs  of  the  different  countries  which 
I have  traversed.  I rarely,  ask  alms  unless  compelled  to  do  so  by  ex- 
treme distress.’ 

“ ‘ Poor  creature ! ’ said  I,  ‘ you  bear  a very  heavy  burden ; your 
feet  are  wounded  and  almost  naked.  Entrust  your  bundle  to  me ; I 
will  carry  it  to  my  abode,  and  you  will  thus  be  able  to  walk  with  more 
ease.’ 

“ ‘ This  burden  daily  becomes  heavier,’  she  replied,  with  a melan- 
choly smile,  which  imparted  a charm  to  her  features,  i but  I do  not 
complain  of  it.  I have  borne  it  without  repining  for  years,  and  over 
hundreds  of  leagues.  I never  trust  it  to  any  one  besides  myself;  but 
you  appear  so  good  and  so  innocent,  that  I shall  lend  it  to  you  until 
we  reach  your  home.’ 

“ She  then  unloosed  the  clasp  of  her  mantle,  which  entirely  covered 
her,  the  handle  of  her  guitar  alone  being  visible.  This  movement 
discovered  to  me  a child  of  five  or  six  years  old,  pale  and  weather- 
beaten like  its  mother,  but  with  a countenance  so  sweet  and  calm 
that  it  filled  my  heart  with  tenderness.  It  was  a little  girl,  quite  in 
tatters,  lean,  but  hale  and  strong,  and  who  slept  tranquilly  as  a slum- 
bering cherub  on  the  bruised  and  wearied  back  of  the  wandering 
songstress.  I took  her  in  my  arms,  but  had  some  trouble  in  keeping 
her  there : for,  waking  up  and  finding  herself  with  a stranger,  she 
struggled  and  wept.  Her  mother,  to  soothe  her,  spoke  to  her  in  her 
own  language ; my  caresses  and  attentions  comforted  her,  and  on  ar- 
riving at  the  castle  we  were  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  When  the 
poor  woman  had  supped,  she  put  her  infant  in  a bed  which  I had 
prepared,  attired  herself  in  a strange  dress,  sadder  still  than  her  rags 
and  came  into  the  hall,  where  she  sang  Spanish,  French,  and  Genual 
ballads,  with  a clearness  and  delicacy  of  voice,  a firmness  of  intona 
^on  united  to  a frankness  and  absence  of  reserve  in  her  manner 


CON8UELO. 


m 


which  charmed  us  all.  My  good  aunt  paid  her  every  attention,  which 
the  Zingara  appeared  to  feel ; but  she  did  not  lay  aside  her  pride,  and 
only  gave  evasive  answers  to  our  questions.  The  child  interested  me 
even  more  than  its  mother;  and  I earnestly  wished  to  see  her  again, 
to  amuse  her,  and  even  to  keep  her  altogether.  I know  not  what 
tender  solicitude  awoke  in  my  bosom  for  this  little  being,  poor,  and  a 
wanderer  on  the  earth.  I dreamt  of  her  all  night  long,  and  in  the 
morning  I ran  to  see  her.  But  already  the  Zingara  had  departed,  and 
l traversed  the  whole  mountain  around  without  being  able  to  discover 
her.  She  had  risen  before  the  dawn,  and,  with  her  child,  had  taken 
the  way  towards  the  south,  carrying  with  her  my  guitar,  which  I had 
made  her  a present  of,  her  own,  to  her  great  sorrow,  being  broken.” 

“ Albert ! Albert ! ” exclaimed  Consuelo,  with  extraordinary  emo- 
tion; “ that  guitar  is  at  Venice  with  Master  Porpora,  who  keeps  it  for 
me,  and  from  whom  I shall  reclaim  it,  never  to  part  with  it  again. 
It  is  of  ebony,  with  a cipher  chased  on  silver — a cipher  which  I well 
remember,  i A.  R.’  My  mother,  whose  memory  was  defective,  from 
having  seen  so  many  things,  neither  remembered  your  name  nor  that 
of  your  castle,  nor  even  the  country  where  this  adventure  had  hap- 
pened; but  she  often  spoke  of. the  hospitality  she  had  received  from 
the  owner  of  the  guitar,  of  the  touching  charity  of  the  young  and 
handsome  signor,  who  had  carried  me  in  his  arms  for  half  a league, 
chatting  with  her  the  while  as  with  an  equal.  Oh,  my  dear  Albert, 
all  that  is  fresh  in  my  memory  also.  At  each  word  of  your  recital, 
these  long-slumbering  images  were  awakened  one  by  one ; and  this  is 
the  reason  why  your  mountains  did  not  appear  absolutely  unknown 
to  me,  and  why  I endeavored  in  vain  to  discover  the  cause  of  these 
confused  recollections  which  forced  themselves  upon  me  during  my 
journey,  and  especially  why,  when  I first  saw  you,  my  heart  palpf- 
tated^and  my  head  bowed  down  respectfully,  as  if  I had  just  found  a 
friend  and  protector,  long  lost  and  regretted.” 

M Do  you  think,  then,  Consuelo,”  said  Albert,  pressing  her  to  his 
heart,  “ that  I did  not  recognise  you  at  the  first  glance  ? In  vain 
have  years  changed  and  improved  the  lineaments  of  childhood.  I 
have  a memory  wonderfully  retentive,  though  often  confused  and 
dreamy,  which  needs  not  the  aid  of  sight  or  speech  to  traverse  the 
space  of  days  and  of  ages.  I did  not  know  that  you  were  my  cher- 
ished Zingarella,  but  I felt  assured  I had  already  known  you,  loved 
you,  and  pressed  you  to  my  heart — a heart  which,  although  unwit- 
tingly, was  from  that  instant  bound  to  yours  for  ever.” 


CHAPTER  XLVL 

Thus  conversing,  they  arrived  at  the  point  where  the  two  paths 
divided,  and  where  Consuelo  had  met  Zdenko.  They  perceived  at  a 
distance  the  light  of  his  lantern  which  was  placed  on  the  ground  be- 
side him.  Consuelo  having  learned  by  experience  the  dangerous 
whims,  and  almost  incredible  strength  of  the  idiot,  involuntarily 
pressed  close  to  Albert,  on  perceiving  the  indication  of  his  approach. 

“ Why  do  you  fear  this  mild  and  affectionate  creature  ? ” said  the 
Foung  count,  surprised,  yet  secretly  gratified  at  her  terror.  “ Poor 


GOXSUBLO, 


214 

Zdenko  loves  you,  although  since  yesternight  a frlghtfhl  dream  has 
made  him  refractory  and  rather  hostile  to  your  generous  project  of 
coming  to  seek  me.  But  he  is,  when  I desire  it,  as  submissive  as  a 
child,  and  you  shall  see  him  at  your  feet  if  I but  say  the  word.” 

“ Do  not  humiliate  him  before  me,”  replied  Consuelo ; “ do  not  in- 
crease the  aversion  which  he  already  entertains  for  me.  I shall  by- 
and-by  inform  you  of  the  serious  reasons  I have  to  fear  and  avoid  him 
for  the  future.” 

“ Zdenko,”  replied  Albert,  “ is  surely  an  ethereal  being,  and  it  if 
difficult  to  conceive  how  he  could  inspire  any  one  whatever  with  fear. 
His  state  of  perpetual  ecstacy  confers  on  him  the  purity  and  charity 
of  angels.” 

“ But  this  state  of  ecstacy  when  it  is  prolonged  becomes  a disease. 
Do  not  deceive  yourself  on  this  point.  God  does  not  wish  that  man 
should  thus  abjure  the  feeling  and  consciousness  of  his  real  life,  to  ele- 
vate himself— often  by  vague  conceptions — to  an  ideal  world.  Mad- 
ness, the  general  result  of  these  hallucinations,  is  a punishment  for 
his  pride  and  indolence.” 

Cynabre  stopped  when  he  saw  Zdenko,  and  looked  at  him  with  an 
affectionate  eye,  expecting  the  customary  caress,  which  his  friend  now 
withheld  from  him.  His  head  was^Jjuried  in  his  hands  as  it  had  been 
when  Consuelo  left  him.  Albert  spoke  to  him  in  Bohemian,  but  he 
scarcely  made  any  reply.  His  cheeks  were  bathed  in  tears,  and  he 
would  not  so  much  as  look  at  Consuelo.  But  Albert  raised  his  voice, 
and  spoke  to  him  firmly ; but  there  was  still  more  of  exhortation  than 
of  anger  in  his  tones.  He  rose  and  offered  her  his  hand,  which  she 
took,  though  not  without  trembling. 

“ Now,”  he  said  to  her  in  German,  looking  at  her  mildly,  although 
sadly,  “ you  ought  to  fear  me  no  longer ; but  you  have  done  me  great 
injury,  and  I feel  that  your  hand  is  full  of  misfortune  to  me.” 

He  walked  on  before,  now  and  then  exchanging  a word  with  Albert. 
They  followed  the  solidly-built  and  spacious  gallery,  which  hitherto 
Consuelo  had  not  yet  traversed,  which  led  them  to  a round,  vaulted 
hall,  in  which  they  again  encountered  the  water  of  the  spring,  flowing 
into  a large  basin,  made  by  the  hand  of  man,  and  walled  up  with  hewn 
stone.  Two  streams  flowed  from  it,  one  losing  itself  in  the  ramifica- 
tions of  the  cavern,  the  other  rushing  towards  the  castle  cistern.  The 
latter  of  these  Zdenko  closed,  placing  in  its  channel  three  huge  blocks 
of  stone,  when  desired  to  lower  the  cistern  to  the  level  of  the  sluice- 
way, and  of  the  stairway  by  which  to  gain  Albert’s  terrace. 

“ Let  us  sit  down  here  awhile,”  said  Albert,  to  his  companion,  “ to 
give  the  water  of  the  well  time  to  run  off  by  the  waste-way ” 

“ Which  I know  but  too  well,”  said  Consuelo,  shuddering  from  head 
to  foot. 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” asked  Albert,  in  astonishment 

“ I will  tell  you  some  other  time,”  said  Consuelo.  u At  this  moment 
I do  not  wish  to  alarm  and  sadden  you  by  the  idea  of  the  perils  I have 
gone  through.” 

“ What  does  she  mean  ? ” asked  Albert  of  Zdenko,  In  astonishment 

Zdenko  replied  in  Bohemian,  while  he  was  kneading  some  clay 
wherewith  to  fill  up  the  interstices  of  the  blocks  of  stone. 

“Explain  yourself,  Consuelo,”  said  Albert,  earnestly.  M I cannot 
make  out  what  he  means.  He  says  that  he  did  not  guide  you  hither, 
that  you  came  through  subterraneous  passages,  which  I know  to  be 
Impenetrable,  and  through  which  no  delicate  woman  would  or  oould 


eOHStJBLO' 


m 


attempt  tc  pass.  He  says  that  iestiny  led  you,  and  that  the  Arch- 
angel Michael,  whom  he  calls  the  haughty  and  imperious,  guided  you 
through  the  waters,  and  across  the  abysses.” 

“ I dare  say  it  was  the  Archangel  Michael,”  said  Consuelo,  with  a 
smile,  “ for  it  is  very  certain  that  I came  by  the  waste-way  of  the 
fountain,  and  outstripped  the  torrent  in  its  course.  That  I lost  my 
way  two  or  three  times,  passed  caverns  and  quarries  in  which  I ex- 
pected to  be  smothered  or  drowned  at  every  step  I took ; and  yet  all 
these  things  were  less  terrible  to  me  than  the  rage  of  Zdenko,  when 
chance  or  Providence  brought  me  back  to  the  true  road.” 

And  here  Consuelo,  who  was  still  speaking  Spanish  to  Albert,  told 
him  in  a few  words  of  the  reception  the  pacific  Zdenko  had  given  her, 
and  of  his  attempt  to  bury  her  alive,  which  he  would  unquestionably 
have  accomplished  had  she  not  fortunately  remembered  the  singu- 
larly heretical  phrase  by  which  to  appease  him.  Cold  sweat  rolled 
down  the  face  of  Albert,  and  his  eyes  shot  fiery  glances  of  wrath 
against  Zdenko,  wrho  returned  them  with  defiance  and  disdain.  Con- 
suelo trembled  at  the  idea  of  a conflict  between  these  two  madmen, 
and  tried  to  reconcile  them  by  gentle  words,  but  Albert  rose,  and  giv- 
ing the  keys  of  his  hermitage  to  Zdenko,  addressed  him  very  coldly, 
when  Zdenko  instantly  submitted,  and  went  away,  singing  some  of 
his  wild  and  antique  airs. 

“ Consuelo,”  said  Albert,  as  soon  as  he  was  gone,  “ if  this  faithful 
animal  now  crouching  at  your  feet,  if  poor  Cynabre  were  by  involun- 
tary rage  to  put  your  life  in  peril,  he  should  die  for  it,  and  my  hand, 
which  has  never  shed  the  blood  even  of  the  lower  animals,  would  not 
hesitate  to  slay  him.  Fear  not,  then ; no  further  peril  shall  assail 
you.” 

“Of  what  are  you  speaking,  Albert ? ” she  cried,  alarmed  at  tbi* 
sudden  illusion.  “I  fear  nothing;  Zdenko  is  still  a man,  if  he  have 
lost  his  reason— in  part  by  his  own  fault,  and  in  part  it  may  be  by 
yours.  Speak  not  of  blood  or  punishment ; it  is  for  you  to  lead  him 
back  to  truth  and  reason.  But  come,  let  us  go.  I fear  that  the  day 
may  dawn,  and  that  we  may  be  se^n  as  we  re-enter  the  castle.” 

“ You  are  right,  Consuelo,”  said  Albert,  proceeding  on  his  way. 
“ Wisdom  speaks  by  thy  mouth.  My  madness  has  been  contagious  to 
the  poor  wretch,  and  myself,  cured  by  you,  it  is  for  me  to  cure  him. 
But  if  I fail,  although  Zdenko  be  a man  in  the  eyes  of  God,  and  an 
angel  for  his  tenderness  to  me,  although  he  be  the  only  true  friend  on 
earth,  be  sure  that  I will  tear  him  from  my  heart,  and  that  you  shall 
never  see  him  more.” 

“ Hold ! Albert,  hold ! ” cried  Consuelo.  “ Dwell  not  on  such  ideas. 
I would  rather  a hundred  ibid  myself  die,  than  force  on  you  a neces- 
sity so  terrible.” 

But  A.oert  heard  her  not.  He  was  again  bewildered.  And  as  he 
was  no  longer  compelled  to  support  her,  he  seemed  to  forget  her  very 
existence,  and  walked  rapidly  forward,  making  the  cavern  re-echo 
with  his  broken  exclamations,  and  leaving  her  to  drag  herself  as  best 
she  might,  behind  him. 

In  this  alarming  situation  Consuelo  could  think  of  nothing  but 
Zdenko,  who  was  behind,  and  might  follow  her,  and  of  the  torrent, 
which  he  might  unchain  at  any  moment,  in  which  case  she  would 
perish  miserably,  deprived  of  Albert’s  aid.  For  he  was  now  the  vic- 
tim of  a new  phantasy,  and  appeared  to  see  her  before  him,  and  to  be 
ha  pursuit  of  a fleeting  phantom,  while  she  was  really  behind  him  la 


216 


C0X8TJEL0. 


the  darkness.  Cyna-ire,  who  carried  the  light,  ran  as  swiftly  M his 
master  walked;  the  light  vanished  behind  the  angles  of  the  sinuous 
road,  and  at  length,  overcome  with  fatigue  and  terror,  Consnelo  stum* 
..Jed  over  a fragment  of  rock,  fell,  and  could  not  rise  again. 

u It  is  all  over!  ” she  thought  within  herself,  after  a vain  eflbrt  to 
raise  herself  on  her  knees.  “ I am  a victim  to  a pitiless  destiny,  and 
never  more  shall  look  upon  the  light  of  heaven.”  A thicker  darkness 
than  that  of  the  cavern  overspread  her  eyes.  Her  hands  grew  chill, 
an  apathy  like  that  of  the  last  sleep  overpowered  her,  when  suddenly 
she  was  raised  in  a pair  of  strong  arms,  and  pressed  closely  to  a lov- 
ing breast,  while  a friendly  voice  addressed  her  with  kind  words. 
Cynabre  bounded  before  her,  shaking  his  lantern  joyously,  for  it  was 
Albert,  who  had  recovered  his  senses,  and  returned,  just  in  time  to  res- 
cue her  from  certain  death.  In  three  minutes  they  reached  the  cistern, 
into  which  the  water  was  already  beginning  to  flow.  Cynabre,  accus- 
tomed to  the  way,  rushed  fleetly  up  the  steps,  as  if  he  feared  to  be  in 
the  way  of  his  master,  while  Albert,  clinging  to  the  chain  with  one 
hand  while  he  upheld  her  with  the  other,  ascended  with  wonderful 
speed.  At  any  time  his  muscular  strength  was  ten-fold  that  of  Zden- 
ko,  and  now  he  was  animated  by  an  almost  supernatural  power. 
When  he  deposited  his  precious  burthen  on  the  margin  of  the  well, 
the  day  was  dawning. 

“ My  friend,”  said  she  tenderly,  “ I was  about  to  die  when  you  saved 
me.  You  have  returned  all  that  I have  done  for  you,  but  now  I feel 
your  fatigue  more  than  you  do  yourself  and  I feel  as  if  I should  give 
way  under  it.” 

“ Oh,  my  little  Zingarella,”  cried  Albert,  enthusiastically,  u I feel 
your  weight  as  little  as  on  that  day  when  I bore  you,  yet  a child,  down 
the  steep  descent  of  the  Shreckenstein  into  the  castle.” 

M Whence  you  are  never  to  issue  more,  without  my  permission,  Al- 
bert Remember  your  promise.” 

“ I will.  Do  you,  likewise.” 

He  then  helped  her  to  wrap  herself  in  her  veil,  and  led  her  through 
his  room,  whence  she  escaped  to  her  own  apartment  unseen  of  any 
one,  although  the  people  were  beginning  to  rise  in  the  castle,  and  the 
dry  morning  cough  of  the  canoness  was  heard  from  the  lower  story. 

Hastily  she  took  off  and  concealed  her  garments,  soiled  and  torn  by 
her  wild  nocturnal  adventures,  for  she  had  recovered  strength  enough 
to  be  aware  of  the  necessity  of  secrecy.  But  no  sooner  had  her  head 
touched  the  pillow  than  a heavy  and  unrefreshing  sleep  fell  on  her, 
and  she  remained  as  it  were  nailed  to  her  pillow  by  the  oppression  of 
fierce  and  fiery  fever. 


- CHAPTER  XLYIL 

The  Canoness  Wenceslawa,  after  praying  that  morning  about  half 
an  hour,  went  up-stairs,  and  walked  straight  to  the  door  of  her  neph- 
ew’s chamber.  She  was  charmed  to  hear  some  slight  sounds  from 
within,  which  served  to  announce  his  return.  She  entered  softly,  and 
what  was  her  rapture  to  see  Albert  sleeping  peacefully  in  his  own  bed, 
and  Cynabre  cuiled  up  in  an  arm  chair.  At  once  she  ran  down  \m 


COH  8 UELO, 


the  oratory,  where  the  old  Count  Christian  was  praying,  as 
wont,  that  heaven  would  restore  his  son  to  him,  either  on  ea 
heaven. 

44  Brother,3 n she  cried  kneeling  by  his  side,  44  suspend  your  p 
and  raise  your  highest  benedictions  toward  heaven.  Your  pra 
are  granted.” 

She  had  no  need  to  utter  another  word.  The  old  man  understoo 
her,  raised  his  withered  hand  toward  heaven,  and  cried  in  a faint 
voice,  44  My  God,  you  have  restored  my  son  to  me  l ” 

And  then  both,  as  if  by  a sudden  inspiration,  began  to  recite  alter- 
nately the  verses  of  the  beautiful  canticle  of  Simeon,  44  Lord,  now 
lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace!  ” 

Albert  they  determined  not  to  awaken ; but  the  baron,  the  chap- 
lain, arid  all  the  servants  were  summoned,  and  listened  devoutly  to 
a mass  of  thanksgiving  in  the  Castle  chapel.  Amelia  alone  greatly 
disapproved  of  being  awakened  at  five  o’clock  in  the  morning,  to 
yawn  through  a sleepy  mass,  though  she  was  rejoiced  at  her  cousin’s 
return. 

44  Why  did  not  your  good  friend,  Porporina,  join  us  in  returning 
thanks  to  Providence,”  said  Count  Christian  to  his  niece,  when  mass 
was  over. 

44 1 tried  to  waken  her,”  answered  Amelia,  44  but  in  vain.  I called 
her,  shook  her,  did  all  I could  to  arouse  her,  but  in  vain.  I should 
have  thought  her  dead,  but  she  was  as  hot  as  fire,  and  her  face  was 
erimson.  She  must  have  slept  ill,  and  is  feverish.” 

44  The  excellent  young  lady  must  be  sick,  then,”  said  Count  Chris- 
tian, 44  and,  my  dear  sister,  you  ought  to  go  and  give  her  that  care 
which  her  situation  requires.  I trust  the  happy  day  of  our  son’s  re- 
turn will  not  be  saddened  by  the  illness  of  that  noble  girl.” 

44 1 will  go,  brother,”  replied  the  canoifess,  who  never  took  a step  or 
said  a word  in  relation  to  Consuelo,  without  consulting  the  chaplain’s 
eye.  44  But  do  not  be  alarmed,  Christian.  The  signora  Nina  is  very 
nervous,  and  will  soon  be  well.  Is  it  not,  however,  a very  singular 
thing,”  said  she,  aside  to  the  chaplain,  when  she  could  do  so  unob- 
served, 44  that  this  girl  should  have  foretold  Albert’s  return  so  confi- 
dently and  so  surely.  Perhaps  we  may  have  deceived  ourselves  about 
her,  and  she  may  be  a sort  of  saint.” 

44  A saint  would  have  come  to  mass,  instead  of  having  a fever  at 
such  a time,”  said  the  chaplain,  gravely. 

This  judicious  remark  drew  a sigh  from  the  canoness ; but  she  went 
to  see  Consuelo,  and  found  her  in  a burning  fever  and  heavy  lethargic 
sleep.  The  chaplain  was  summoned,  and  declared  that,  should  this 
condition  last,  she  would  be  very  ill.  Ths  young  baroness  was  next 
questioned  as  to  whether  her  neighbor  had  passed  a restless  night. 

44  Far  from  it,”  said  Amelia,  44 1 never  heard  her  move.  I expected, 
after  the  predictions  and  strange  tales  with  which  she  has  been  regal- 
ing us  of  late,  to  have  heard  the  sabbat  danced  in  her  room;  but 
whether  the  devil  carried  her  far  hence,  or  whether  she  deals  with 
very  clever  imps  I know  not ; she  never  stirred  to  my  knowledge,  for 
my  sleep  was  not  once  broken.” 

The  chaplain  thought  these  jests  very  wicked,  and  the  canoness 
whose  good  heart  ever  counteracted  the  errors  of  her  judgment, 
thought  them  very  much  misplaced  by  the  bedside  of  a sick  compan- 
ion. She  said  nothing,  however,  attributing  her  niece’s  spite  to  well-i 
founded  jealousy,  and  only  asked  the  chaplain  what  medicine  ought  to 
be  given  to  Porporina, 


COXBfcELO 


rdered  a sedative,  but,  as  her  teeth  were  hard  clenched  it  could 
administered,  and  this  he  pronounced  a bad  sign.  But  in  that 
apathy  was  contagious,  ana  he  put  off  his  judgment  until  after 
ture  examination,  saying  “ If  this  state  continues,  we  must  think 
sending  for  a physician;  for  I should  not  feel  justified  in  undertak- 
g a case  Where  the  ailment  is  not  moral.  In  the  meantime  I will 
ray  for  her,  and  it  may  be,  to  judge  from  her  recent  state  of  mind, 
that  the  aid  of  God  will  be  most  effective  in  her  case.” 

A servant  maid  was  left  with  Consuelo.  The  canoness  went  to 
prepare  a dainty  breakfast  for  Albert ; Amelia  put  on  a brilliant  cos- 
tume to  captivate  him.  Every  one  prepared  some  gratification  for 
the  young  count,  while  no  one  thought  of  poor  Consuelo,  to  whom 
his  return  was  due. 

Albert  soon  awoke,  and,  instead  of  making  useless  efforts  to  re- 
member what  had  passed,  as  he  usually  did  after  his  fits  of  delirium 
and  visits  to  the  cavern,  he  speedily  remembered  his  love  and  the  hap- 
piness which  he  had  derived  from  Consuelo.  He  hastened  to  arise, 
dressed  and  perfumed  himself,  and  hastened  to  throw  himself  into 
the  arms  of  his  father  and  his  aunt,  whose.joy  was  at  its  height  when 
they  observed  that  Albert  was  perfectly  sensible,  conscious  of  his  long 
absence,  and  penitent  for  the  uneasiness  he  had  caused  them.  Ha 
begged  their  pardon  earnestly,  and  promised  to  give  them  no  causa 
fbr  further  annoyance.  He  saw  their  delight  at  his  return  to  a per- 
ception of  reality,  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  remarked  that  they  per- 
sisted in  flattering  him  as  to  his  true  position,  and  he  felt  humiliated 
at  being  treated  as  a child,  when  he  knew  himself  again  a man. 

When  they  sat  down  to  table,  in  the  midst  of  the  caresses  of  his 
family  and  their  tears  of  joy,  he  looked  anxiously  around  for  her  who 
was  become  necessary  to  his  happiness  and  peace,  so  that  his  aunt, 
seeing  him  start  at  the  opening  of  every  door,  thought  it  best  to  re- 
lieve his  anxiety  by  stating  that  their  young  guest  had  slept  badly, 
and  wished  to  remain  in  bed  part  of  the  day. 

Albert  well  understood  that  his  deliverer  must  naturally  be  much 
fatigued;  nevertheless,  fear  was  manifest  in  all  his  features  at  this 
news. 

“ But,  aunt,”  said  he,  at  length,  unable  to  control  his  emotion,  " I 
think  if  Porpora’s  adopted  daughter  be  seriously  ill,  we  might  be  bet- 
ter employed  than  sitting  here  round  the  table,  eating  and  drinking 
and  chatting  at  our  ease. 

“ Don’t  be  alarmed,  Albert/’  said  Amelia,  blushing  with  spite, 
* Nina  is  busy  dreaming  about  you,  and  auguring  your  return,  which 
sne  awaits  in  tranquil  sleep,  while  we  are  joyously  celebrating  it 
here.” 

Albert  turned  pale  with  indignation,  and  replied  with  an  angry 
glance — 

“ If  any  one  here  has  slept  while  awaiting  me,  it  is  not  the  person 
whom  you  have  named  that  deserves  thanks  for  it.  The  rosiness  of 
your  cheeks,  fair  cousin,  shows  that  you  have  not  lost  a moment’s 
sleep  in  my  absence,  and  therefore  now  require  no  rest.  I thank  you 
for  it  with  all  my  heart,  for  it  would  have  been  very  painful  to  me  to 
beg  your  pardon  with  shame  and  penitence,  as  I have  done  of  all  the 
rest  of  the  family.” 

“ Thanks  for  the  exception,”  answered  Amelia,  crimson  with  rage, 
“ I will  try  always  to  deserve  it,  by  keeping  my  watchings  and  anxieties 
for  some  one  who  will  care  for  them — not  turn  them  into  jest.” 


C0K8UBI0. 


This  little  altercation,  which  was  no  new  affair  between  Albert 
his  betrothed,  though  it  was  unusually  bitter,  in  despite  of  all  Albert  a 
efforts  to  the  contrary,  threw  some  constraint  and  sadness  over  the 
rest  of  the  morning.  The  canoness  went  several  times  to  see  her 
patient,  whom  she  found  still  more  feverish  and  more  lethargic. 
Amelia,  who  regarded  Albert’s  anxiety  as  a personal  insult,  went  to 
cry  in  her  own  room.  The  chaplain  told  the  canoness  that  if  the 
fever  lasted  until  evening,  they  must  send  for  a physician.  Count 
Christian,  who  could  not  comprehend  his  son’s  anxiety,  and  who 
thought  him  still  in  ill  health,  kept  his  son  close  to  his  side  all  the 
morning.  But  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  soothe  him  by  affectionate 
words,  the  old  man  could  not  hit  upon  a single  topic  by  which  he 
could  awaken  Albert’s  sympathies,  fearing  to  sound  the  depths  of  his 
mind,  through  a vague  apprehension  of  being  overcome  in  argument, 
which  had  always  befallen  him,  whenever,  wanting  as  he  was  both  in 
eloquence  and  that  logical  art  of  special  pleading  which  supplies  the 
want  of  it,  he  had  attempted  to  attack  what  he  called  the  heresies  of 
Albert,  and  to  combat  the  vivid  gleams  which  pierced  through  the 
gloom  of  his  insane  fits,  with  the  feeble  and  modest  arguments  of  a 
weak  and  narrow-minded,  though  sincere  Catholic.  And  he  even 
dreaded,  lest  by  giving  him  the  victory,  he  should  but  add  to  his  pride 
and  attachment  in  the  wrong,  and  so  do  him  injury  rather  than  good. 
Their  conversation  was,  therefore,  broken,  at  least  twenty  times,  by  a 
sort  of  mutual  alarm,  and  twenty  times  resumed  with  constraint  on 
both  sides,  and,  at  last,  sunk  of  itself  into  silence.  The  old  count 
fell  asleep  in  his  own  arm-chair,  and  Albert  went  to  inquire  after  Con- 
suelo’s  health,  concerning  whom  he  was  the  more  alarmed,  the  more 
they  endeavored  to  conceal  from  him  her  ailment. 

lie  passed  two  hours  and  upwards  roaming  about  the  corridors  of 
the  castle,  lying  in  wait  for  the  canoness  or  the  chaplain,  in  hopes  of 
gaining  tidings  from  them.  The  chaplain  persisted  in  answering  him 
concisely  and  reservedly;  the  canoness  put  on  a forced  smile  when 
sho  saw  him,  and  affected  to  talk  of  other  things,  as  if  to  lull  him  into 
a false  security.  But  it  was  not  long  before  Albert  perceived  that  she 
was  really  uneasy,  that  her  visits  to  Consuelo’s  chamber  became  much 
more  frequent,  and  that  she  did  not  hesitate  about  opening  and  shut- 
ting  the  doors  constantly,  as  If  the  sleep,  which  they  pretended  to  be 
so  peaceful  and  necessary,  was  one  which  could  not  be  interrupted  by 
any  noise  or  uproar.  He  took  courage,  therefore,  to  approach  the 
room,  to  enter  which  he  would  almost  have  given  his  life.  It  had  an 
antechamber,  separated  from  the  passage  by  two  massive  doors,  iu 
which  there  was  no  chink  or  cranny  penetrable  to  the  eye.  So  soon 
as  she  observed  this  attempt,  the  canoness  bolted  both  these  securely, 
and  thereafter,  visited  her  patient  only  through  Amelia’s  room,  which 
was  adjoining,  and  which  she  well  knew  Albert  would  not  visit  in 
order  to  seek  tidings,  save  with  the  last  reluctance.  At  length,  seeing 
that  he  was  growing  angry,  she  resolved  to  deceive  him ; and,  while 
asking  pardon  of  the  Lord  in  her  heart,  announced  that  the  invalid 
was  much  better,  and  would  come  down  to  dinner  with  the  family. 

Albert,  in  the  meantime,  returned  to  his  father,  anxiously  awaiting 
the  hour  which  should  give  him  back  happiness  and  Consuelo. 

But  the  bell  rang  in  vain ; no  Consul o made  her  appearance,  and  the 
canoness,  who  seemed  to  becom3  rapidly  an  adept  in  the  art  of  false- 
hood,  said  that  she  had  risen,  but  feeling  herself  still  weak,  had  pre- 
ferred to  take  her  dinner  in  her  own  room ; and  she  even  carried  the 


220 


GGN3T7XLO* 


deceit  so  far  as  to  send  delicate  dishes  to  her  from  the  table.  These 
stratagems  at  last  convinced  Albert,  though  he  still  felt  an  invincible 
presentiment  of  evil,  and  only  preserved  the  appearance  of  calmness 
by  the  exertion  of  a powerful  effort. 

In  the  evening,  Wenceslawa  again  announced,  with  an  air  of  satis- 
faction, that  the  Porporina  was  much  better,  that  the  feverish  redness 
of  her  complexion  had  subsided,  that  her  pulse  was  rather  feeble 
than  full,  and  that  she  would  undoubtedly  pass  an  excellent  night. 

“ And,  wherefore,”  muttered  Albert  to  himself,  “ am  I frozen  with 
terror,  in  spite  of  this  favorable  news  ? ” 

In  truth,  the  good  canoness,  who,  despite  her  leanness  and  deform- 
ity, had  never  been  sick  an  hour  in  her  life,  understood  nothing  of  the 
sickness  of  others.  When  she  saw  Consuelo’s  flushed  cheek  alter  to  a 
pale  bluish  hue,  her  agitated  blood  become  stagnant  in  her  veins,  and 
her  oppressed  bosom  cease  to  labor ; she  really  believed  that  she  was 
convalescent,  and  gave  notice  of  the  occurrence  with  childish  gladness. 
But  the  chaplain,  who  knew  a little  more,  saw  at  once  that  this  ap- 
parent ease  was  but  the  precursor  of  a violent  crisis.  So  soon  as  Al- 
bert had  retired,  he  told  the  canoness  that  the  moment  had  arrived 
when  the  physician  must  be  summoned.  Unfortunately  the  town 
was  distant,  the  night  dark,  the  roads  execrably  bad,  and  Hans,  the 
messenger,  though  zealous  enough,  as  slow  as  the  horse  that  carried 
him.  The  storm  arose,  the  rain  fell  in  torrents.  The  old  horse, 
which  carried  the  old  servant,  tripped  a hundred  times,  and,  at  length, 
lost  his  way  with  his  master,  who  took  every  hill  for  the  Sehrecken- 
stein,  and  every  flash  of  lightning  for  the  fiery  flight  of  an  evil  spirit. 
It  was  broad  day  before  he  recovered  his  way,  and  it  was  late  before 
the  physician  could  be  aroused,  induced  to  dress  himself,  and  proceed 
on  his  way.  More  than  four-and-twenty  hours  had  been  lost  in  de- 
termining and  performing  this. 

Meanwhile,  Albert  vainly  endeavored  to  sleep.  His  evil  auguries 
and  the  wild  sounds  of  the  distant  storm,  kept  him  awake  all  night 
long.  He  dared  not  go  down  stairs,  fearing  the  offended  dignity  of 
his  aunt,  and  her  remarks  on  the  impropriety  of  his  visit  to  the 
chamber  of  two  young  ladies.  He  left  his  door  open,  however,  and 
listened  to  the  footsteps  as  they  passed  to  and  fro,  on  the  lower  floor. 
Hearing  nothing  of  moment,  he  was  compelled  to  be  calm,  and  in 
obedience  to  Consuelo’s  orders,  he  watched  over  his  reason  and  his 
moral  health,  with  firmness  and  patience.  But,  on  a sudden,  above 
the  peals  of  thunder  and  the  crashing  of  the  timbers  of  the  old  cas- 
tle under  the  fury  of  the  hurricane,  a long  and  piercing  cry  reached 
his  ear,  like  the  thrust  of  a keen  weapon.  Albert,  who  had  lain 
down  on  the  bed  in  his  clothes,  with  a full  resolution  of  sleeping, 
sprang  to  his  feet,  rushed  down  stairs,  and  knocked  at  Consuelo’s 
door  All  was  again  silence.  No  one  replied  or  came  to  open  the 
door.  Albert  almost  fancied  he  had  been  dreaming,  when  another 
cry  followed,  yet  wilder  than  the  first.  He  hesitated  no  longer,  ran 
round  a gloomy  corridor,  arrived  at  Amelia’s  door,  and  announced 
his  name.  He*  heard  her  bolt  it  from  within,  and  her  voice  impe- 
riously commanded  him  to  begone.  Nevertheless,  the  cries  and 
groans  redoubled.  It  was  the  voice  of  Consuelo  in  the  extremity  of 
suffering.  He  even  heard  his  own  name  uttered  in  tones  of  anguish 
by  that  adored  mouth.  He  drove  tb?  door  in  furiously,  making  both 
lock  and  bolt  fly,  and  casting  Amelia,  who,  in  a damask  dressing- 
gown  and  lace  cap,  played  the  part  of  injured  modesty  violently  bad* 

r 


COXSUKLO.  221 

m the  sofa,  rushed  into  Consnelo’s  apartment,  pale  as  a spectre,  and 
With  his  hair  bristling  erecf  on  his  head. 


CHAPTER  XLVHL 

Constjelo,  who  was  now  violently  delirious,  was  struggling  furi- 
ously in  the  arms  of  the  two  strongest  maid-servants  in  the  house. 
Assailed,  as  is  usually  the  case  in  all  affections  of  the  brain,  by  appall- 
ing terrors,  the  poor  girl  was  endeavoring  to  escape  from  the  visions 
which  beset  her.  She  could  see  only  in  the  persons  who  were  trying 
to  restrain  and  reassure  her,  enemies  and  monsters.  The  chaplain, 
terror-stricken  and  expecting  to  see  her  fall  at  each  moment,  over- 
powered by  the  violence  of  her  fit,  could  only  pray  for  her,  while  she 
took  him  for  Zdenko,  building  the  wall  against  her  in  the  cavern. 
The  trembling  canoness  who  was  assisting  the  other  women  to  hold 
her  in  bed,  she  took  for  the  phantom  of  the  two  Wandas,  the  sisters 
of  Ziska,  and  the  mother  of  Albert,  confronting  her,  one  by  one  in 
the  cavern,  and  accusing  her  of  invading  their  demesnes.  Her  cries, 
her  groans,  her  words,  all  incomprehensible  to  the  bystanders,  all  re- 
lated to  the  events  of  ‘the  past  night.  She  heard  the  roar  of  the  tor- 
rents, and  moved  her  arms  as  if  she  would  have  swam.  She  shook 
her  black  hair,  dishevelled  from  her  shoulders,  and  thought  she  saw 
the  foam-flakes  fall  from  it.  Ever  she  fancied  Zdenko  behind  her, 
opening  the  sluice-gates,  or  before  her,  blocking  her  way  with  granite. 
She  only  spoke  of  water  and  of  stones,  and  that  with  a pertinacity 
that  led  the  chaplain  to  say—1 “ This  is  a very  long  and  painful  dream. 
I cannot  conceive  what  has  so  rivetted  her  thoughts  on  that  cistern. 
It  is  evidently  the  beginning  of  her  fever,  and  her  delirium  refers  to 
nothing  else.” 

At  the  moment  when  Albert  entered  her  chamber  in  dismay,  Con- 
suelo,  exhausted  with  the  violence  of  her  delirium,  was  uttering  only 
inarticulate  words  and  piercing  cries.  The  power  of  her  will,  no 
longer  resisted  her  terrors,  as  it  had  done  when  she  encountered 
them,  and  the  reaction  which  she  now  experienced  was  intensely 
horrible.  She  recovered  her  voice,  however,  by  a sort  of  instinct  pre- 
dominant over  her  delirium,  and  began  to  call  Albert,  with  shrieks 
»o  wild  and  piercing,  that  the  whole  house  rang. 

u Here — I am  here ! ” he  cried,  rushing  towards  the  bed.  Consuelo 
heard  him — recovered  all  her  energies,  and  fancying  that  he  was  fly- 
ing from  her,  darted  out  of  bed,  escaping  the  hands  of  her  attendants, 
wUh  that  rapidity  of  motion  and  muscular  power,  which  fever  often 
lends  even  to  the  weakest  frames.  She  sprang  into  the  middle  of  the 
room  with  dishevelled  hair  and  bare  feet,  and  her  body  covered  only 
by  a slight,  and  ruffled  night-dress,  looking  almost  like  a spectre,  just 
issued  from  the  tomb.  At  the  very  moment  when  they  were  on  the 
point  of  seizing  her,  she  sprang  with  a light  bound  to  the  top  of  the 
harpsichord,  and  thence  to  the  sill  of  the  window,  which  she  evi- 
dently took  for  the  opening  of  the  fatal  cistern ; and  calling  again  on 
the  name  of  Albert  through  the  wild  and  stormy  night,  would  have  cast 
herself  out  headlong,  had  not  Albert,  yet  more  active  and  far  stronger 
than  she,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her  back  to  her  bed 


222 


COXSUEIO. 


She  did  not  recognise  him,  but  she  made  no  resistance  and  ceased  to 
cry.  He  addressed  her  in  Spanish,  lavishing  on  her  the  tenderest 
names  and  epithets.  She  listened,  but  appeared  neither  to  hear  or 
see  him ; but  suddenly  rising  on  her  knees  in  bed,  she  began  to  sing 
Handel’s  Te  Deum , which  she  had  recently  read  and  admired.  Never 
had  she  looked  more  lovely  than  in  that  attitude  of  ecstasy,  with  her 
hair  loosely  flowing,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  fever,  and  her  eyes 
turned  heavenward,  and  conscious  of  heaven  only.  The  canoness 
was  so  much  moved  that  she  sank  on  her  knees  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  and  burst  into  tears;  and  the  chaplain,  unsympathetic  as  he  was, 
bowed  his  head  in  religious  veneration.  As  soon  as  she  had  ended 
her  chant,  she  heaved  a deep  sigh,  and  exclaiming — “ I am  saved,” 
fell  backward,  pale  as  marble,  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  but  devoid  of 
life  or  lustre,  her  lips  ashy  white,  and  her  arms  rigid. 

An  instant  of  terror  and  silence  followed  the  catastrophe.  Amelia 
who  had  watched  this  terrible  scene  motionless  at  the  door  of  her 
own  room,  without  daring  to  move  a step,  fell  backward  fainting. 
The  canoness  and  the  two  women  ran  to  succor  her,  while  Consuelo 
lay  cold  and  motionless  on  the  arm  of  Albert,  who  had  let  fall  his 
head  upon  her  bosom,  and  seemed  scarce  more  alive  than  she.  The 
canoness  had  no  sooner  laid  Amelia  on  the  bed,  than  she  returned  to 
the  door  of  Consuelo’s  room. 

“ Well,  Monsieur  Chaplain  ? ” she  asked  mournfully. 

“ Madam,  it  is  death ! ” replied  the  chaplain  in  a deep  voice,  letting 
foil  Consuelo’s  arm,  the  pulse  of  which  he  had  been  questioning. 

“No,  it  is  not  death,”  cried  Albert  impetuously.  “I  tell  you  it  is 
not  death.  I have  consulted  her  heart  better  than  you  have  her 
pulse.  It  beats  still;  she  breathes,  she  is  alive.  Oh!  she  will  live. 
It  is  not  thus,  nor  is  it  now  that  she  is  to  pass  away.  Now  is  the  mo- 
ment to  act  with  energy.  Now,  Monsieur  Chaplain,  give  me  your 
medicine  chest;  I know  how  to  treat  her,  which  you  do  not.  Wretch 
that  you  are,  obey  me.  You  have  done  her  no  good.  You  might 
have  prevented  this  fearful  crisis;  you  have  not  done  so.  You  hid 
her  illness  from  me.  You  have  all  deceived  me.  Did  you  then  wish 
to  destroy  her?  Your  cowardly  prudence,  your  stupid  apathy,  have 
tied  up  both  your  tongue  and  your  hands.  Give  me  your  medicine 
chest,  I say,  and  let  me  act.” 

And  as  the  chaplain  still  hesitated  to  give  his  medicines,  which  might 
easily,  in  the  hands  of  one  inexperienced,  much  more  of  one  half-mad, 
be  considered  poisons,  he  snatched  it  violently  out  of  his  hands. 
Without  paying  any  regard  to  his  aunt’s  observations,  he  chose  out 
and  weighed  himself,  the  powerful  sedatives,  which  could  alone  act  in 
such  a crisis.  Albert  was  learned  in  many  things,  of  which  no  one 
believed  that  he  knew  anything.  He  had  experimented  upon  himself 
at  one  period  of  his  life,  when  he  was  himself  attending  to  the  dis- 
ordered functions  of  his  own  brain,  and  had  studied  the  effect  of  the 
most  potent  anti-spasmodics.  Prompt  of  judgment,  bold  and  zealous, 
he  administered  a dose  which  the  chaplain  would  not  have  ventured  to 
recommend.  With  great  gentleness  he  succeeded  in  opening  her 
clenched  teeth,  and  got  her  to  swallow  some  drops  of  the  efficacious 
medicine.  At  the  end  of  an  hour,  during  which  he  repeated  the  prac- 
tice several  times,  her  breathing  was  free,  her  hands  had  recovered 
their  warmth,  and  her  features  their  elasticity.  She  neither  saw  nor 
heard  anything  as  yet,  but  her  lethargy  had  assumed  the  form  of  sleep 
and  a pale  color  was  returning  to  her  Tips.  The  physic' an  arrived,  and 


eONSUCLO. 


928 


eeelng  that  the  case  was  a serious  one,  declared  that  he  had  been 

called  too  late,  and  would  answer  for  nothing.  She  ought  to  have  been 
bled  last  night,”  he  said,  “ but  now  the  moment  was  not  favorable. 
To  bleed  would  bring  back  the  crisis,  and  this  would  be  embarrass- 
toe.” 

“ It  will  bring  it  back,”  said  Albert,  “ and  yet  she  must  be  bled.” 
The  German  physician,  who  was  a heavy  person,  accustomed  to  be 
regarded  a's  an  oracle  in  his  part  of  the  country,  where  he  had  no 
rival  or  competitor,  raised  his  bushy  eyes,  and  looked  frowningly  to 
see  who  dared  question  his  diction. 

“ I tell  you  she  must  be  bled,”  said  Albert,  authoritatively.  “ The 
crisis  will  return  with  or  without  the  bleeding.” 

“ Permit  me,”  said  the  doctor ; “ that  is  less  certain  than  you  seem 
to  think.” 

“ If  the  crisis  do  not  return  all  is  lost,”  replied  Albert,  * and  you 
ought  to  know  it.  This  lethargic  state  tends  to  congestion  of  the 
brain,  paralysis,  and  death.  It  is  your  duty  to  possess  yourself  of  the 
disease,  to  rekindle  its  intensity,  and  then  combat  it,  and  subdue  it 
What  can  you  do  beside  here  ? Prayers  and  ftmeral  ceremonies  are 
not  your  duty.  Bleed  her,  or  I will  do  so  myself.” 

The  doctor  knew  well  that  Albert’s  reasoning  was  just,  but  it  was 
not  his  rule  that  a man  so  grave  and  important  as  he,  should  decide 
promptly.  Moreover,  our  German  had  a habit  of  pretending  per- 
plexities, in  order  to  come  out  of  them  triumphantly,  as  if  by  a 
sudden  flash  of  genius,  so  as  to  lead  persons  to  speak  of  him  as  a 
very  great  and  skilful  practitioner,  without  his  equal,  even  in  Vienna. 

When  he  found  himself  contradicted,  therefore,  and  driven  to  the 
wall  by  Albert’s  impatience — “ If  you  are  a physician,”  he  replied, 
“ and  if  you  have  authority  here,  I do  not  see  why  I was  called  in,  and 
1 shall  go  home.” 

“ If  you  don’t  chose  to  decide  while  there  is  yet  time,  you  may  do 
»o,”  returned  Albert. 

Doctor  Wetzelius,  who  was  desperately  offended  at  being  associated 
with  an  unknown  brother  of  the  profession,  rose,  and  went  into 
Amelia’s  room,  to  attend  to  the  nerves  of  that  young  person,  who  was 
urgently  solicitous  to  see  him,  and  to  take  leave  of  the  canoness ; but 
she  insisted  on  his  remaining. 

“ Alas ! my  dear  doctor,”  said  she,  “ you  cannot  abandon  us  in  such 
a situation.  See  what  heavy  responsibility  weighs  on  us.  My  neph- 
ew has  offended  you,  but  you  should  not  resist  so  seriously  the  hasti- 
ness of  a young  man  who  is  so  little  master  of  himself.” 

“Was  that  Ccrant  Albert?”  asked  the  doctor,  amazed.  “I  should 
never  have  recognised  him,  he  is  so  much  altered.” 

“ Without  doubt,  the  ten  years  which  have  elapsed  since  you  saw 
him,  have  made  a great  change  in  him.” 

“ I thought  him  completely  cured,”  said  the  doctor,  maliciously ; u for 
I have  not  been  sent  for  once  since  his  return.” 

“ Ah  1 my  dear  doctor,  you  are  aware  that  Albert  never  willingly 
submitted  to  the  decision  of  science.” 

“ And  now  he  appears  to  be  a physician  himse.f!” 

“ He  has  a slight  knowledge  of  all  sciences,  but  he  carries  into  all  his 
uncontrollable  impatience.  The  frightful  state  in  which  he  has  just 
seen  this  young  girl  has  agitated  him  terribly,  otherwise  you  would 
have  seen  him  more  polite,  more  calm,  and  grateful  to  you  for  the  care 
you  bestowed  on  him  in  his  infancy.” 


>•  * 

, i ' 

224  roKSDBLo. 

* I think  he  requires  care  more  than  ever,”  replied  the  doctor,  who 
5n  spite  of  his  respect  for  the  Rudolstadt  family,  preferred  afflicting  th« 
canoness  by  this  harsh  observation,  to  stooping  from  his  professional 
position,  and  giving  up  the  petty  revenge  of  treating  Albert  as  a mad- 
man. 

The  canoness  suffered  the  more  from  this  cruelty,  that  the  exasper- 
ation of  the  doctor  might  lead  him  to  reveal  the  condition  of  her  nepb 
ew,  which  she  took  such  pains  to  conceal.  She  therefore  laid  aside  her 
dignity  for  the  moment  to  disarm  this  resentment,  and  deferentially 
inquired  what  he  thought  of  the  bleeding  so  much  insisted  on  by  Al- 
bert. 

“ I think  it  is  absurd  at  present,”  said  the  doctor,  who  wished  to 
maintain  the  initiative,  and  allow  the  decision  to  come  perfectly  free 
from  his  respected  lips.  “ I shall  wait  an  hour  or  two ; and  if  the  right 
moment  should  arrive  sooner  than  I expect,  I shall  act : but  in  the 
present  crisis,  the-  state  of  the  pulse  does  not  warrant  me  taking  any 
decisive  step.” 

“ Then  you  will  remain  with  us?  Bless  you,  excellent  doctor! n 

“ When  I am  now  aware  that  my  opponent  is  the  young  count,* 
replied  the  doctor,  smiling  with  a patronising  and  compassionate  air, 

* I shall  not  be  astonished  at  anything,  and  shall  allow  him  to  talk  as 
ne  pleases.” 

And  he  was  turning  to  re-enter  Consuelo’s  apartment,  the  door  of 
which  the  chaplain  had  closed  to  prevent  Albert  hearing  this  collo- 
quy, when  the  chaplain  himself,  pale  and  bewildered,  left  the  side 
girl’s  couch,  and  came  to  seek  the  physician. 

“ In  the  name  of  Heaven  I doctor  1 ” he  exclaimed,  “ come  and  um 
your  authority,  for  mine  is  despised,  a3  the  voice  of  God  himself 
would  be,  I believe,  by  Count  Albert.  He  persists  in  bleeding  the 
dying  girl,  contrary  to  your  express  prohibition.  I know  not  by  what 
force  or  stratagem  we  shall  prevent  him.  He  will  maim  her,  if  he  do 
not  kill  her  on  the  spot,  by  some  untimely  blunder.” 

“ So,  so,”  muttered  the  doctor  in  a sulky  tone,  as  he  stalked  leisure- 
ly  towards  the  door,  with  the  conceited  and  insulting  air  of  a man 
devoid  of  natural  feeling,  “ we  shall  see  fine  doings  if  I fail  in  divert* 
ing  his  attention  in  some  way.” 

But  when  they  approached  the  bed,  they  found  Albert  with  hit 
reddened  lancet  between  his  teeth:  with  one  hand  h^  supported 
Consuelo’s  arm,  while  with  the  other  he  held  the  bar^.  The  vein 
was  open,  and  dark-colored  blood  flowed  in  an  abundant  stream. 

The  chaplain  began  to  murmer,  to  exclaim,  and  to  take  Heaven  to 
witness.  The  doctor  endeavored  to  jest  a little,  to  distract  Albert*! 
thoughts,  conceiving  he  might  take  his  own  time  to  close  the  vein, 
were  it  only  to  open  it  a moment  after,  that  his  caprice  and  vanity 
might  thus  enjoy  all  the  credit  of  success.  But  Albert  kept  them  all 
At  a distance  by  a mere  glance;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  drawn  a suffi- 
cient quantity  of  blood,  he  applied  the  necessary  bandages,  with  the 
dexterity  of  an  experienced  operator.  He  then  gently  replaced  Con-  j 
euelo’s  arm  by  her  side,  handing  the  canoness  a phial  to  hold  to  bet 
nostrils,  and  called  the  chaplain  and  the  doctor  into  Amelia’s  cham- 
ber. 

w Gentlemen,”  said  he,  “ you  can  now  be  of  no  further  use.  Inde- 
cision and  prejudice  united,  paralyze  your  zeal  and  your  knowledge.  I 
here  declare  that  I take  all  the  responsibility  on  myself,  and  that  I will 
net  be  cither  opposed  or  molested  In  so  serious  a task.  I beg  there* 


fore  that  the  chaplain  may  recite  his  prayers  and  the  doctor  adminis- 
ter his  potions  to  my  cousin.  I shall  suffer  no  prognostics,  nor  sen* 
tences  of  death  around  the  bed  of  one  who  will  soon  regain  her  con* 
sciousne^s,  JLet  this  be  settled.  If  in  this  instance  I offend  a learned 
man— if  I am  guilty  of  culpable  concfcict  towards  a friend— I shall  ask 
pardon  when  I can  once  more  think  of  myself.” 

After  having  thus  spoken  in  a tone,  the  serious  and  studied  polite- 
ness of  which  was  in  strong  contrast  with  the  coldness  and  formality 
of  his  words,  Albert  re-entered  Consuelo’s  apartment,  closed  the  door, 
piii,  the  key  in  his  pocket,  and  said  to  the  canoness  * “ No  one  shall 
either  enter  or  leave  this  room  without  my  permission.” 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

The  terrified  canoness  dared  not  venture  a word  in  reply.  There 
was  something  »o  resolute  in  Albert’s  air  and  demeanor  that  his  good 
aunt  quailed  before  it,  and  obeyed  him  with  an  alacrity  quite  surpris- 
ing in  her.  The  physician  finding  his  authority  despised,  and  not  car- 
ing, as  he  afterwards  affirmed,  to  encounter  a madman,  wisely  deter- 
mined to  withdraw.  The  chaplain  betook  himself  to  his  prayers,  and 
Albert,  assisted  by  his  aunt  and  two  of  the  domestics,  remained  the 
whole  day  with  his  patient,  without  relaxing  his  attentions  for  an  in- 
stant. After  some  hours  of  quiet  the  paroxysm  returned  with  an  inten- 
sity almost  greater  than  that  of  the  preceding  night.  It  was  however 
of  shorter  duration,  and  then  it  yielded  to  the  effect  of  powerful  reme- 
dies. Albert  desired  the  canoness  to  retire  to  rest,  and  to  send  him 
another  female  domestic  to  assist  him  while  the  two  others  took  some 
repose. 

“Will  you  not  also  take  some  rest?”  asked  Wenceslawa,  trem- 
bling. 

<l  No,  my  dear  aunt,”  he  replied,  “ I require  none.” 

" Alas  1 my  child,”  said  she,  “ you  will  kill  yourself,  then ; ” and  she 
added  as  she  left  the  room,  emboldened  by  the  abstraction  of  the 
count,  “ This  stranger  costs  us  dear.” 

He  consented  however  to  take  some  food,  in  order  to  keep  up  his 
strength.  He  ate  standing  in  the  corridor,  his  eye  fixed  upon  the 
door ; and  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  hasty  repast,  he  threw  down 
the  napkin,  and  re-entered  the  room.  He  had  closed  the  communi- 
cation between  the  chamber  of  Consuelo  and  that  of  Amelia,  atd 
only  allowed  the  attendants  to  gain  access  by  the  gallery.  Amelia 
wished  to  be  admitted  to  tend  her  suffering  companion ; but  she  went 
so  awkwardly  about  it,  and,  dreading  the  return  of  convulsions,  dis- 
played such  terror  at  every  feverish  movement,  that  Albert  became 
irritated,  and  begged  her  not  to  trouble  herself  further,  but  retire  to 
her  own  apartment. 

“ To  my  apartment ! ” exclaimed  Amelia ; “ impossible !— do  you 
imagine  I could  sleep  with  those  frightful  cries  of  agony  ringing  in  my 
ears  ? ” 

Albert  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied  that  there  were  many 
ether  apartments  in  the  castle,  of  which  she  might  select  the  beet 


226  eoNatstio. 

an  til  the  invalid  could  be  removed  to  one  where  her  proximity  should 
annoy  no  one. 

Amelia,  irritated  and  displeased,  followed  the  advice.  To  witness 
the  delicate  care  which  Albert  displayed  towards  her  rival  was  more 
painful  than  all.  “ O,  aunt ! ” she  exclaimed,  throwing  herself  into 
the  arms  of  the  canoness,  when  the  latter  had  brought  her  to  sleep 
in  her  own  bedroom,  where  she  had  a bed  prepared  for  hei  beside  her 
own,  “ we  did  not  know  Albert.  He  now  shows  how  he  can  love.” 
For  many  days  Consuelo  hovered  between  life  and  death;  but  Al- 
oert  combated  her  malady  with  such  perseverance  and  skill  as  finally 
to  conquer  it.  He  bore  her  through  this  rude  trial  in  safety;  and  as 
soon  as  she  was  out  of  danger,  he  caused  her  to  be  removed  to  an 
apartment  in  the  turret  of  the  castle,  where  the  sun  shone  for  the 
longest  time,  and  where  the  view  was  more  extensive  and  varied  than 
from  any  of  the  other  windows.  This  chamber,  furnished  after  an 
antique  fashion,  was  more  in  unison  with  the  serious  tastes  of  Consu- 
elo than  the  one  they  had  first  prepared  for  her,  and  she  had  long 
evinced  a desire  to  occupy  it.  Here  she  was  free  from  the  importuni- 
ties of  her  companion,  and  in  spite  of  the  continual  presence  of  a 
nurse,  who  was  engaged  each  morning  and  evening,  she  could  enjoy 
the  hours  of  convalescence  agreeably  with  her  preserver.  They  al- 
ways conversed  in  Spanish,  and  the  tender  and  delicate  manifestation 
of  Albert’s  love  was  so  much  the  sweeter  to  Consuelo  in  that  lan- 

fuage  which  recalled  her  country,  her  childhood,  and  her  mother, 
mbued  with  the  liveliest  gratitude,  weakened  by  sufferings  in  which 
Albert  alone  had  effectively  aided  and  consoled  her,  she  submitted  to 
that  gentle  lassitude  which  is  the  result  of  severe  indisposition.  Her 
recollections  of  the  past  returned  by  degrees,  but  not  with  equal  dis- 
tinctness. For  example,  if  she  recalled  with  undisguised  satisfaction 
the  support  and  devotion  of  Albert,  during  the  principal  events  of 
their  acquaintance,  she  saw  his  mental  estrangement,  and  his  some- 
what gloomy  passion,  as  through  a thick  cloud.  There  were  even 
hours,  during  the  half  consciousness  of  sleep,  or  after  composing 
draughts,  when  she  imagined  that  she  had  dreamed  many  of  the 
things  that  could  give  cause  for  distrust  or  fear  of  her  generous  friend. 
She  was  so  much  accustomed  to  his  presence  and  his  attentions,  that 
if  he  absented  himself  at  prayers  or  at  meals,  she  felt  nervous  and  ag- 
itated until  his  return.  She  fancied  that  her  medicines,  when  pre- 
pared and  administered  by  any  other  hand  than  his,  had  an  effect  the 
contrary  of  that  which  was  intended.  She  would  then  observe  with 
a tranquil  smile,  so  affecting  on  a lovely  countenance  half  veiled  by 
the  shadow  of  death : “ I now  believe,  Albert,  that  you  are  an  en- 
chanter; for  if  you  order  but  a single  drop  of  water,  it  produces  in 
me  the  same  salutary  calmness  and  strength  which  exists  in  your- 
self.” 

Albert  was  happy  for  the  first  time  in  his  life ; and  as  if  his  soul  was 
strong  in  joy  as  it  had  been  in  grief,  he  deemed  himself,  at  this  period 
of  intoxicating  delight,  the  most  fortunate  man  on  earth.  This  cham- 
ber where  he  constantly  saw  his  beloved  one  had  become  his  world* 
At  night,  after  he  was  supposed  to  have  retired,  and  every  one  was 
thought  asleep  in  the  house,  he  returned  with  stealthy  steps;  and 
while  the  nurse  in  charge  slept  soundly,  he  glided  behind  the  bed  of 
his  dear  Consuelo,  and  watched  her  sleeping,  pale  and  drooping  like  a 
flower  after  the  storm.  He  settled  himself  in  an  arm-chair,  which 
he  took  care  to  leave  there  when  he  went  away,  and  thus  passed  the 


CONSUELO, 


22T 


\ , . 

mgnt,  sleeping  so  Tightly  that  at  the  least  movemen  of  Consuelo,  he 
•woke  and  bent  towards  her  to  catch  her  faint  words;  or  his  ready 
nand  received  hers  when  a prey  to  some  unhappy  dream,  she  was 
restless  and  disquieted.  If  the  nurse  chanced  to  awake,  Albert  de- 
clared he  had  just  come  in,  and  she  rested  satisfied  that  he  merely 
visited  his  patient  once  or  twice  during  the  night,  while  in  reality  he 
did  not  waste  half  an  hour  in  his  own  chamber.  Consuelo  shared 
this  feeling,  and  although  discovering  the  presence  of  her  guardian 
much  more  frequently  than  that  of  the  nurse,  she  was  still  so  weak  as 
to  be  easily  deceived  both  as  to  the  number  and  duration  of  his  visits. 
Often  when,  after  midnight,  she  found  him  watching  over  her,  and  be- 
sought him  to  retire  and  take  a few  hours  repose,  he  would  evade  her 
desire  by  saying  that  it  was  now  near  daybreak,  and  that  he  had  just 
risen.  These  innocent  deceptions  excited  no  suspicion  in  the  mind 
of  Consuelo  of  the  fatigue  to  which  her  lover  was  subjecting  himself; 
and  to  them  it  was  owing  that  she  seldom  suffered  from  the  absence 
of  Albert.  This  fatigue,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  was  unperceived  by 
the  young  count  himself : so  true  is  it  that  love  imparts  strength  to 
the  weakest.  He  possessed,  however,  a powerful  organization : and 
he  was  animated  besides  by  a love  as  ardent  and  devoted  as  ever  fired 
a human  breast. 

When,  during  the  first  warm  rays  of  the  sun,  Consuelo  was  able  to 
bear  removal  to  the  half-open  window,  Albert  seated  himself*behind 
hex,  and  sought  in  the  course  of  the  clouds  and  in  the  purple  tints  of 
the  sunbeams,  to  divine  the  thoughts  with  which  the  aspect  of  the 
skies  inspired  his  silent  friend.  Sometimes  he  silently  took  a corner 
of  the  veil  with  which  she  covered  her  head,  and  which  a warm  wind 
floated  over  the  back  of  the  sofa,  and  bending  forward  his  forehead  as 
if  to  rest,  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  One  day  Consuelo,  drawing  it  for- 
ward to  cover  her  chest,  was  surprised  to  find  it  warm  and  moist 
and  turning  more  quickly  than  she  had  done  since  her  illness,  per- 
ceived some  extraordinary  emotion  on  the  countenance  of  her  friend. 
His  cheeks  were  flushed,  a feverish  fire  shone  in  his  eyes,  while  his 
breast  heaved  with  violent  palpitations.  Albert  quickly  recovered 
himself,  but  not  before  he  had  perceived  terror  depicted,  on  the  coun- 
tenance of  Consuelo.  This  deeply  afflicted  him*  He  would  rather 
have  witnessed  there  an  emotion  j)f  contempt,  or  even  of  severity, 
than  a lingering  feeling  of  fear  and  distrust.  He  resolved  to  keep  so 
careful  a watch  over  himself,  that  no  trace  of  his  aberration  of  mind 
should  be  visible  to  her  who  had  cured  him  of  it,  almost  at  the  price 
of  her  own  life. 

He  succeeded,  thanks  to  a superhuman  power,  and  one  which  no 
ordinary  man  could  have  exercised.  Accustomed  to  repress  his  emo- 
tions, and  to  enjoy  the  full  scope  of  his  desires,  when  not  incapaci- 
tated by  his  mysterious  disease,  he  restrained  himself  to  an  extent 
that  he  did  not  get  credit  for.  His  friends  were  ignorant  of  the  fre- 
quency and  force  of  the  attack  which  he  had  every  day  to  overcome, 
until  overwhelmed  by  despair,  he  fled  to  his  secret  cavern — a con- 
queror even  in  defeat,  since  he  still  maintained  sufficient  circumspec- 
tion to  hide  from  all  eyes  the  spectacle  of  his  fall.  Albert’s  madness 
was  of  the  most  unhappy  yet  elevated  stamp.  He  knew  his  madness 
and  felt  its  approach  until  it  had  completely  laid  hold  of  and  over- 
powered him.  Yet  he  preserved  in  the  midst  of  his  attacks  the 
vague  and  confused  remembrance  of  an  external  world,  in  which  he 
did  not  wish  to  reappear,  whilst  he  felt  his  relations  with  it  not  per* 


eoKstrsi®. 


228 

fectlj  established.  This  memory  of  an  actual  and  real  life  we  art  r* 
lain,  when,  In  the  dreams  of  a painful  sleep,  we  are  transported  into 
another  life — a life  of  fiction  and  indefinable  visions.  We  occasion- 
ally struggle  against  those  fantasies  and  terrors  of  the  night,  assuring 
ourselves  that  they  are  merely  the  effects  of  nightmare,  and  making 
efforts  to  awake ; but  on  such  occasions  a hostile  powter  appears  to 
seize  upon  us  at  every  effort,  and  to  plunge  us  again  into  a horrible 
lethargy,  where  terrible  spectacles,  ever  growing  more  gloomy,  close 
around  us,  and  where  griefs  the  most  poignant  assail  and  torture  us. 

It  was  in  a strange  series  of  alternations  that  the  powerful  yet  mis- 
erable existence  of  this  singular  man,  whom  nothing  but  an  active, 
delicate  and  intelligent  tenderness  could  rescue  from  his  own  suffer- 
ings, was  spent.  Consuelo  had  in  reality  the  candid  and  innocent 
soul  which  seemed  particularly  adapted  for  the  management  of  his 
dark  spirit,  which  had  hitherto  been  closed  against  any  possible  ap- 
proach of  sympathy.  There  was  something  especially  soft  and  touch- 
ing in  the  romantic  enthusiasm  of  her  first  solicitude  for  Albert,  as 
well  as  in  the  respectful  friendship  with  which  subsequent  gratitude 
inspired  her,  that  really  appeared  intended  by  a special  Providence  for 
the  care  of  Albert.  It  is  very  probable  that,  if  forgetful  of  the  past, 
Consuelo  could  have  returned  the  ardor  of  his  passion ; transports  so 
new  to  his  experience,  and  a joy  so  sudden,  would  have  excited  him 
fatally.  But  her  calm  and  discreet  friendship  had  a far  surer  and 
more  beneficial  effect  on  him.  It  was  a restraint,  while  it  was  a bless- 
ing; and  if  he  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  being  loved  as  he  never  had 
been  loved  before,  he  was  yet  grieved  at  not  being  loved  as  he  desired 
to  be  loved;  and  he  had  a secret  fear  of  losing  even  that  which  he  now 
possessed,  should  he  appear  to  be  dissatisfied  with  it.  The  effect  of 
this  triple  love  was  to  leave  no  room  in  his  mind  any  longer  for  the 
indulgence  of  those  fatal  reveries  to  which  his  lonely  and  inactive  life 
had  naturally  led  him.  He  was  delivered  from  these  as  if  by  the  force 
of  enchantment,  for  he  forgot  them  altogether,  and  the  image  of  her 
whom  he  loved,  kept  them  aloof  like  a heavenly  buckler  outstretched 
between  them  and  him.  Like  the  fabulous  hero  of  antiquity,  Consue- 
lo had  descended  into  Tartarus  to  rescue  her  friend,  and  had  brought 
back  thence  bewilderment  and  terror.  In  his  turn,  it  became  his  duty 
to  deliver  her  from  the  hateful  guests  who  had  followed  her,  and  he 
had  succeeded  in  doing  so  by  delicate  attentions  and  respectful  cares. 
They  thus  were  recommencing  as  it  were  a new  life  altogether,  rest- 
ing for  support,  one  on  the  other,  scarcely  daring  to  look  backward, 
and  lacking  the  courage  to  revisit,  even  in  thought,  the  abyss  which 
they  had  traversed.  The  future  was  a new  abyss,  not  less  mysterious 
and  terrible,  which  they  did  not  venture  to  fathom.  But  they  calmly 
enjoyed  the  present,  like  a season  of  grace  which  was  granted  them 
by  Heaven, 


CHAPTER  L. 

It  can  by  no  means  be  asserted  that  the  other  Inhabitant!  of  the 
fkmily  were  as  well  at  ease  as  they.  Amelia  was  furious,  and  deigned 
not  to  pay  the  shortest  visit  to  the  invalid.  She  affected  even  to 
avoid  speaking  to  Albert,  never  looked  at  him,  and  would  not  even 


CON8UELO. 


229 


ttply  to  hi*  morning  and  evening  greeting.  And  what  anno;  ed  her 
the  moat  was,  that  Albert  did  not  appear  so  much  as  to  notice  her 
•pite. 

The  canoness,  now  that  she  saw  the  very  evident  passion  of  the 
nephew  /or  the  adventuress , had  no  longer  a moment’s  peace  of  mind. 
She  was  e/en  mentally  laboring  how  she  might  avert  the  scandal; 
and,  to  this  end,  held  long  and  frequent  conferences  with  the  chap- 
lain. 

But  that  holy  man  was  by  no  means  inclined  to  bring  these  proceed- 
ings to  a close.  He  had  been  for  a long  time  a very  unipiportant  per- 
son, quite  overfooked  among  the  cares  of  the  family ; and  he  was  now 
recovering  a soi  i of  importance  among  these  new  agitations.  He  had 
the  pleasure  of  playing  the  spy,  of  revealing,  informing,  predicting, 
advising,  of  stirring  in  a word  at  his  own  pleasure,  all  the  interests  of 
the  house,  while  affecting  to  meddle  with  none  of  them,  and  covering 
himself  from  the  indignation  of  the  young  count  behind  the  petticoats 
of  the  aged  aunt. 

But,  these  two  every  day  discovered  new  causes  for  alarm,  new  mo- 
tives for  precaution,  but  never  any  means  of  safety.  Every  day,  the 
good  Wenceslawa  approached  her  nephew  with  a resolve  to  come  to  a 
full  explanation,  but  every  day  a sarcastic  smile,  or  an  icy  look,  check- 
ed the  abortive  effort.  Hourly,  she  watched  an  opportunity  for  glid- 
ing into  Consuelo’s  room  and  administering  a severe  reproof;  but  at 
every  attempt,  Albert,  as  if  informed  by  a familiar  demon,  met  her  on 
the  threshold,  and  with  a single  frown,  like  that  of  Olympian  Jove, 
lowered  the  courage  and  abashed  the  wrath  of  the  powers  adverse  to 
his  Ilion. 

The  canoness,  however,  had  twice  or  thrice  began  a conversation 
with  the  invalid ; and  at  the  moment  in  which  she  could  talk  with 
her  alone,  she  made  the  best  of  her  time  by  addressing  a great  num- 
ber of  very  trite  remarks  to  her  which  she  thought  vastly  significant 
But  as  Consuelo  had  no  such  ambition  as  she  was  supposed  to  enter- 
tain, it  was  all  thrown  away  upon  her.  Her  surprise,  and  her  air  of 
candor  and  astonishment,  at  once  disarmed  the  good  canoness,  who 
never  in  her  life  had  been  able  to  resist  a frank  accent,  or  a cordial 
caress. 

She  retreated,  therefore,  in  confusion,  to  confess  her  defeat  to  the 
chaplain,  and  the  rest  of  the  day  was  passed  in  resolutions  for  the 
morrow. 

Nevertheless,  Albert,  who  clearly  saw  what  was  in  process,  and  ob- 
serving that  Consuelo  was  beginning  to  suspect  something,  and  to 
grow  uneasy,  determined  to  put  an  end  to  the  annoyance.  He  watch- 
ed Wenceslawa,  therefore,  in  the  passage,  one  morning,  when  sh® 
thought  to  out-general  him  by  a very  early  visit  to  Consuelo,  and  show- 
ing himself  suddenly,  just  as  she  was  turning  the  key  in  the  lock  of 
the  invalid’s  door. 

“ My  good  aunt,”  said  he,  taking  possession  of  that  hand,  and  rais- 
ing it  to  his  lips,  ‘ ‘ h have  something  to  say  to  you  very  low,  which 
greatly  interests  you.  It  is  that  the  life  and  health  of  the  person  w ho 
is  sleeping  here,  are  dearer  to  me  than  my  own  happiness.  I know 

that  your  confessor  holds  it  a point  of  conscience  to  prevent  my  devo- 
tion to  her,  and  to  destroy  the  effects  of  my  cares.  Had  it  not  been 
for  that,  your  noble  heart  would  never  have  let  you  dream  of  jeopard- 
ing the  recovery  of  an  invalid,  scarce  yet  out  of  danger,  by  harsh 
p^ds  or  reproaches.  But,  sin^e  the  fanaticism  and  $etty  mind  if  t 


230 


©OKBUEL®, 


priest  can  work  such  a prodigy  as  to  change  the  sincerest  piety  an! 
purest  charity  into  horrid  cruelty,  I shall  oppose  to  the  extent  of  my 
power  the  crime  of  winch  my  poor  aunt  allows  herself  to  be  made  the 
instrument,  I will  guard  the  invalid  night  and  day,  I will  not  quit  her 
for  a moment;  and,  if  in  spite  of- my  vigilance,  she  be  torn  from  me,  I 
swear  by  all  that  is  most  solemn  in  heaven,  I will  leave  the  house  of 
my  fathers,  never  to  return.  I think,  when  you  tell  my  resolve  to  the 
chaplain,  he  will  cease  annoying  you,  and  endeavoring  to  prevent  th* 
kindly  instinct  of  your  maternal  heart.” 

The  amazed  canoness  could  only  reply  to  this  discourse  by  melting 
into  tears. 

Albert  had  led  her  to  the  end  of  the  gallery,  so  that  the  explana- 
tion could  not  be  heard  by  Consuelo.  She  complained  of  tl.e  threat- 
ening tone  which  Albert  employed,  and  endeavored  to  profit  by  the 
occasion,  to  show  him  the  folly  of  his  attachment  towards  a person 
of  such  low  birth  as  Nina* 

“ Aunt,”  replied  Albert,  smiling,  “ you  forgot  that  if  we  are  of  the 
royal  blood  of  the  Podiebrads,  our  ancestors  were  kings  only  through 
favor  of  the  peasants  and  revolted  soldiery.  A Podiebrad,  therefore, 
should  not  pride  himself  on  his  noble  origin,  but  rather  regard  it  as 
an  additional  motive  to  attach  him  to  the  weak  and  the  poo.r,  since  it 
is  among  them  that  his  strength  and  power  have  planted  their  roots, 
and  not  so  long  ago  that  he  can  have  forgotten  it.” 

The  canoness  closed  the  conference  by  retiring  to  consult  the  chap- 
lain. 

When  Wenceslawa  related  this  conference  to  the  chaplain,  he  gave 
it  as  his  opinion  that  it  would  not  be  prudent  to  exasperate  the  young 
count  by  remonstrances,  nor  drive  him  to  extremity  by  annoying  his 
protege — 

“ For,”  said  he,  “ it  may  occasion  a return  of  his  malady.”  After 
a pause,  he  resumed. 

“ It  is  to  Count  Christian  himself  that  you  must  address  your  rep- 
resentations,” said  he.  “ Your  excessive  delicacy  has  too  much  em- 
boldened the  son.  Let  your  wise  remonstrances  at  length  awaken 
the  disquietude  of  his  father,  that  he  may  take  decisive  treasures 
with  respect  to  this  dangerous  person.” 

“ Do  you  suppose,”  replied  the  canoness,  “ that  I have  not  already 
done  so?  But  alas!  my  brother  has  grown  fifteen  years  older  during 
the  fifteen  days  of  Albert’s  last  disappearance.  His  mind  is  so  enfee- 
bled that  it  is  no  longer  possible  to  make  him  understand  any  sugges- 
tion. He  appears  to  indulge  in  a sort  of  passive  resistance  to  the  idea 
of  a new  calamity  of  this  description,  and  rejoices  like  a child  at  hav- 
ing found  his  son,  and  at  hearing  him  reason  and  conduct  himself  as 
an  intelligent  man.  He  believes  him  cured  of  his  malady  and  does 
not  perceive  that  poor  Albert  is  a prey  to  a new  kind  of  madness, 
more  fatal  than  the  first.  My  brother’s  security  in  this  respect  is  so 
great,  and  he  enjoys  it  so  unaffectedly,  that  I have  not  yet  found  cour- 
age to  open  his  eyes  completely  as  to  what  is  passing  around  him.  It 
seems  to  me  that  this  disclosure  coming  from  you,  and  accompanied 
with  your  religious  exhortations,  would  be  listened  to  with  more  res- 
ignation, have  a better  effect,  and  be  less  painful  to  all  parties.” 

“ It  Is  too  delicate  an  affair,”  replied  the  chaplain,  ‘‘to  be  under- 
taken by  a poor  priest  like  me.  It  will  come  much  better  from  a 
sister,  and  your  highness  can  soften  the  bitterness  of  the  event,  by 
expressions  of  tenderness  which  I could  not  venture  upon  toward! 
th*  august  head  of  the  Rudolstadt  family.” 


CONStJELO, 


231 


Those  two  grave  personages  lost  many  days  In  deciding  upon  which 
should  bell  the  cat.  During  this  period  of  irresolution  and  apathy, 
in  which  habit  also  had  its  share,  love  made  rapid  progress  in  the 
heart  of  Albert.  Consuelo’s  health  was  visibly  restored,  and  nothing 
occurred  to  disturb  the  progress  of  an  intimacy  which  the  watchful- 
ness of  Argus  could  not  have  rendered  more  chaste  and  reserved, 
than  it  was  simply  through  true  modesty  and  sincere  love. 

Meantime  the  Baroness  Amelia,  unable  to  support  her  humiliation, 
earnestly  entreated  her  father  to  take  her  back  to  Prague.  Baron 
Frederick,  who  preferred  a life  in  the  forest  to  an  abode  in  the  city, 
promised  everything  that  she  wished,  but  put  off  from  day  to  day  the 
announcement  and  preparations  for  departure.— The  baroness  saw 
that  it  was  necessary  to  urge  matters  on  to  suit  her  purpose,  and  de- 
vised one  of  those  ingenious  expedients  in  which  her  sex  are  never 
wanting.  She  had  an  understanding  with  her  waiting-maid — a sharp- 
witted  and  active  young  Frenchwoman — and  one  morning,  just  as  her 
father  was  about  to  set  out  for  the  chase,  she  begged  him  to  accom- 
pany her  in  a carriage  to  the  house  of  a lady  of  their  acquaintance, 
to  whom  she  had  for  a long  time  owed  a visit.  The  baron  had  some 
difficulty  in  giving  up  his  gun  and  his  powder-horn  to  change  his 
dress  and  the  employment  of  the  day,  but  he  flattered  himself  that 
this  condescension  would  render  Amelia  less  exacting,  and  that  the 
amusement  of  the  drive  would  dissipate  her  ill-humor,  and  enable 
her  to  pass  a few  more  days  at  the  Castle  of  the  Giants  without  mur- 
muring. When  the  good  man  had  gained  a respite  of  a week,  he 
fancied  he  had  secured  the  independence  of  his  life;  his  forethought 
extended  no  further.  He  therefore  resigned  himself  to  the  necessity 
of  sending  Sapphire  and  Panther  to  the  kennel,  Attila,  the  hawk, 
turned  upon  its  perch  with  a discontented  and  mutinous  air,  which 
(breed  a heavy  sigh  from  its  master. 

The  baron  at  last  seated  himself  in  the  carriage  with  his  daughter, 
and  in  three  revolutions  of  the  wheel  was  fast  asleep.  The  coachman 
then  received  orders  from  Amelia  to  drive  to  the  nearest  post-house. 
They  arrived  there  after  two  hours  of  a rapid  journey;  and  when  the 
baron  opened  his  eyes,  he  found  post-horses  in  his  carriage,  and  every- 
thing ready  to  set  out  on  the  road  to  Prague. 

“ What  means  this  ? ” exclaimed  the  baron ; “ where  are  we,  and 
whither  are  we  going?  Amelia,  my  dear  child,  what  folly  is  this? 
what  is  the  meaning  of  this  caprice,  or  rather  this  pleasantry  with 
which  you  amuse  yourself?  ” 

To  ail  her  father’s  questions  the  young  baroness  only  replied  with 
repeated  bursts  of  laughter,  and  by  childish  caresses.  At  length,  when 
she  saw  the  postilion  mounted,  and  the  carriage  roll  lightly  along  the 
highway,  she  assumed  a serious  air,  and  in  a very  decided  tone  spoke 
as  follows : “ My  dear  papa,  do  not  be  uneasy ; all  our  luggage  is  care- 
fully packed.  The  carriage  trunks  are  filled  with  all  that  is  necessary 
for  our  journey.  There  is  nothing  left  at  the  Castle  of  the  Giants  ex- 
cept your  dogs  and  guns,  which  will  be  of  no  use  at  Prague ; and  be- 
sides, you  can  have  them  whenever  you  wish  to  send  for  them.  A 
letter  will  be  handed  to  uncle  Christian  at  breakfast,  which  is  so  ex- 
pressed as  to  make  him  see  the  necessity  of  our  departure,  without 
unnecessarily  grieving  him,  or  making  him  angry  either  with  you  or 
me.  I must  now  humbly  beg  your  pardon  for  having  deceived  you, 
but  it  is  nearly  a month  since  you  consented  to  what  I at  this  moment 
execute.  X do  not  oppose  your  wishes  therefore  in  returning  to 


m 


IOMIUILOi 


Prague;  I merely  chose  a time  when  yon  did  not  contemplate  it,  and 
I would  wager  that,  after  all,  you  are  delighted  to  be  freed  from  the 
annoyance  which  the  quickest  preparations  for  departure  entail.  My 
position  became  intolerable,  and  you  did  not  perceive  it.  Kiss  me 
dear  papa,  and  do  not  frighten  me  with  those  angry  looks  of  yours.” 

In  thus  speaking,  Amelia,  as  well  as  her  attendant,  stifled  a great 
inclination  to  laugh ; for  the  baron  never  had  an  angry  look  for  any 
one,  much  less  for  his  cherished  daughter.  He  only  rolled  his  great 
bewildered  eyes,  a little  stupefied,  it  must  be  confessed,  by  surprise. 
If  he  experienced  any  annoyance  at  seeing  himself  fooled  in  such 
wise,  and  any  real  vexation  at  leaving  his  brother  and  sister  without 
bidding  them  adieu,  he  was  so  astonished  at  the  turn  things  had  taken, 
that  his  uneasiness  changed  to  admiration  of  his  daughter's  tact,  and 
he  could  only  exclaim — 

“ But  how  could  you  arrange  everything  so  that  I had  not  the  least 
suspicion  ? Faith,  I little  thought  when  I took  off  my  boots,  and  sent 
my  horse  back  to  the  stable,  that  I was  off  for  Prague,  and  that  I 
should  not  dine  to-day  with  my  brother.  It  is  a strange  adventure, 
and  nobody  will  believe  me  when  I tell  it.  But  where  have  you  put 
my  travelling-cap,  Amelia?  Who  could  sleep  in  a carriage  with  this 
hat  glued  to  one’s  ears  ? ” 

“ Here  it  is,  dear  papa,”  said  the  merry  girl,  presenting  him  with  his 
fur  cap,  which  he  instantly  placed  on  his  head  with  the  utmost  satis- 
faction. 

“ But  my  bottle  ? you  have  certainly  forgotten  it,  you  little  w 'ked 
one.” 

“Oh!  certainly  not,”  she  exclaimed,  hanging  him  a large  crystal 
flask,  covered  with  Russia  leather  and  mounted  with  silver.  ‘ ‘ I filled 
it  myself  with  the  best  Hungary  wine  from  my  aunt’s  cellar.  But  you 
had  better  taste  it  yourself;  I know  it  is  the  description  you  prefer.” 

“ And  my  pipe  and  pouch  of  Turkish  tobacco? 

“ Nothing  is  forgotten,”  said  Amelia’s  maid;  “his  excellency  the 
baron  will  find  everything  packed  in  the  carriage.  Nothing  has  been 
omitted  to  enable  him  to  pass  the  journey  agreeably.” 

“ Well  done!”  said  the  baron,  filling  his  pipe,  “ but  that  does  not 
clear  you  of  all  culpability  in  this  matter,  my  dear  Amelia.  You  will 
render  your  father  ridiculous,  and  make  him  the  laughing  stock  of 
every  one.” 

“ Dear  papa,  it  is  I who  seem  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
when  I apparently  refuse  to  marry  an  amiable  cousin,  who  does  not 
even  deign  to  look  at  me,  and  who,  under  my  very  eyes  pays  assiduous 
court  to  my  music  mistress.  I have  suffered  this  humiliation  long 
enough,  and  I do  not  think  there  are  many  girls  of  my  rank,  my  age, 
and  my  appearance,  who  would  not  have  resented  it  more  seriously. 
Of  one  thing  I am  certain,  that  there  are  girls  who  would  not  have 
endured  what  I have  done  for  the  last  eighteen  months;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  would  have  put ' an  end  to  the  farce  by  running  off  with 
themselves,  if  they  had  failed  in  procuring  a partner  in  their  flight. 
For  my  part,  I am  satisfied  to  run  off  with  my  father;  it  is  a more 
novel  as  well  as  a more  proper  step.  What  think  you,  dear  papa  ? ” 

“ Why,  I think  the  devil ’s  in  you,”  replied  the  baron,  kissing  his 
daughter;  and  he  passed  the  rest  )f  his  journey  gaily,  drinking,  eat- 
ing, and  smoking  by  turns,  without  making  any  further  complaint,  or 
expressing  any  farther  astonishment. 

This  event  d.d  not  produce  the  sensation  in  that  family  at  the  Castle 


CON8UELO.  283 

mt  the  Giants  which  the  little  baroness  had  flattered  herself  It  would  da 
To  begin  with  Count  Albert,  he  might  have  passed  a week  without 
noticing  the  absence  of  the  young  baroness,  and  when  the  canoness 
informed  him  of  it,  he  merely  remarked : — “ This  is  the  only  clever 
thing  which  the  clever  Amelia  has  done  since  she  set  foot  here.  As 
to  my  good  uncle,  I hope  he  will  soon  return  to  us.” 

“ For  my  part,”  said  old  Count  Christian,  “ I regret  the  departure 
of  my  brother,  because  at  my  age  one  reckons  by  weeks  and  days. 
What  is  not  long  for  you,  Albert,  is  an  eternity  for  me,  and  I am  not 
so  certain  as  you  are  of  seeing  my  peaceful  and  easy-tempered  Fred- 
erick again.  Well,  it’s  all  Amelia’s  doings,”  added  he,  smiling  as  he 
threw  aside  the  saucy,  yet  cajoling  letter  of  the  young  baroness. 
“ Women’s  spite  pardons  not.  You  were  not  formed  for  each  other, 
my  children,  and  my  pleasant  dreams  have  vanished.” 

While  thus  speaking,  the  old  count  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  counte- 
nance of  his  son  with  a sort  of  melancholy  satisfaction,  as  if  antici- 
pating some  indication  of  regret ; but  he  found  none,  and  Albert,  ten- 
derly pressing  his  arm,  made  him  understand  that  he  thanked  him  for 
relinquishing  a project  so  contrary  to  his  inclination. 

“God’s  will  be  done!”  ejaculated  the  old  man,  “and  may  your 
heart,  my  son,  be  free.  You  are  now  well,  happy,  and  contented 
amongst  us.  I can  now  die  in  peace,  and  a father’s  love  will  comfort 
you  after  our  final  separation.” 

“ Do  not  speak  of  separation,  dear  father,”  exclaimed  the  young 
count,  his  eyes  suddenly  filling  with  tears ; “ I cannot  bear  the  idea.” 
The  canoness,  who  began  to  be  affected,  received  at  this  moment  a 
significant  glance  from  the  chaplain,  who  immediately  rose,  and  with 
feigned  discretion  left  the  room.  This  was  the  signal  and  the  order. 
She  thought,  not  without  regret  and  apprehension,  that  the  moment 
was  at  length  come  when  she  must  speak,  and  closing  her  eyes  like  a 
person  about  to  leap  from  the  window  of  a house  on  fire,  she  thus  be- 
gan, stammering  and1  becoming  paler  than  usual: — 

“ Certainly  Albert  loves  his  father  tenderly,  and  would  not  willingly 
inflict  on  him  a mortal  blow.” 

Albert  raised  his  head,  and  gazed  at  his  aunt  with  such  a keen  and 
penetrating  look  that  she  could  not  utter  another  word.  The  old  count 
appeared  not  to  have  heard  this  strange  observation,  and  in  the  silence 
which  followed,  poor  Wenceslawa  remained  trembling  beneath  her 
nephew’s  glance,  like  a partridge  fascinated  before  the  pointer. 

But  Count  Christian,  rousing  from  his  reverie  after  a few  minutes, 
replied  to  his  sister  as  if  she  had  continued  to  speak,  or  as  if  he  had 
read  in  her  mind  the  revelations  she  was  about  to  make. 

“ Dear  sister,”  said  he,  “ if  I may  give  you  an  advice,  it  is  not  to 
torment  yourself  with  things  which  you  do  not  understand.  You 
have  never  known  what  it  is  to  love,  and  the  austere  rules  of  a canon- 
ess are  not  those  which  befit  a young  man.” 

“ Good  God ! ” murmured  the  astonished  canoness.  u Either  my 
brother  does  not  understand  me,  or  his  reason  and  piety  are  about  to 
desert  him.  Is  it  possible  that  in  his  weakness  he  would  encourage  or 
treat  lightly ” 

“How?  aunt!”  interrupted  Albert  in  a firm  tone,  and  with  a 
stiange  countenance.  “Speak  out,  since  you  are  forced  to  it.  Ex- 
plain yourself  clearly ; there  must  be  an  end  to  this  constraint — we 
must  understand  each  other.” 

“No,  sister;  you  need  not  speak,”  replied  the  count;  “yoa  ham 


284 


CONSUELO 


nothing  new  to  tell  me.  I understand  perfectly  well,  without  having 
seemed  to  do  so,  what  has  been  going  on  for  some  time  past.  The 
period  is  not  yet  come  to  explain  ourselves  on  that  subject;  when  it 
does,  I shall  know  how  to  act.” 

He  began  immediately  to  speak  on  other  subjects,  and  left  the 
canoness  astonished,  and  Albert  hesitating  and  troubled.  When  the 
chaplain  was  informed  of  the  manner  in  which  the  head  of  the  fam- 
ily received  the  counsel  which  he  had  indirectly  given  him.  he  was 
seized  with  terror.  Count  Christian,  although  seemingly  irresolute 
and  indolent,  had  never  been  a weak  man,  and  sometimes  surprised 
those  who  knew  him,  by  suddenly  arousing  himself  from  a kind  c 
somnolency,  and  acting  with  energy  and  wisdom.  The  priest  was 
afraid  of  having  gone  too  far,  and  of  being  reprimanded.  He  com- 
menced therefore  to  undo  his  work  very  quickly,  and  persuaded  the 
canoness  not  to  interfere  furtn^W.  A fortnight  glided  away  in  this 
manner  without  anything  suggesting  to  Consuelo  that  she  was  a sub- 
ject of  anxiety  to  the  family.  Albert  continued  his  attentions,  and 
announced  the  departure  of  Amelia  as  a short  absence,  but  did  not 
suffer  her  to  suspect  the  cause.  She  began  to  leave  her  apartment; 
and  the  first  time  she  walked  in  the  garden,  the  old  Christian  support- 
ed the  tottering  steps  of  the  invalid  on  his  weak  and  trembling  arm* 


CHAPTER  LI. 

It  was  indeed  a happy  day  for  Albert  when  he  saw  her  whom  he 
had  restored  to  life,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  father,  and  offer  him 
her  hand  in  the  presence  of  his  family,  saying,  with  an  ineffable  smile. 
“ This  is  he  who  saved  me,  and  tended  me  as  if  I had  been  his  sister.” 

But  this  day,  which  was  the  climax  of  his  happiness,  changed  sud- 
denly, and  more  than  he  could  have  anticipated,  his  relations  with 
Consuelo.  Henceforth,  the  formalities  of  the  family  circle  precluded 
her  being  often  alone  with  him.  The  old  count,  who  appeared  to  have 
even  a greater  regard  for  her  than  before  her  illness,  bestowed  the  ut- 
most care  upon  her,  with  a kind  of  paternal  gallantry  which  she  felt 
deeply.  The  canoness  observed  a prudent  silence,  but  nevertheless 
made  it  a point  to  watch  over  all  her  movements,  and  to  form  a third 
party  in  all  her  interviews  with  Albert.  At  length,  as  the  latter  gave 
no  indication  of  returning  mental  alienation,  they  determined  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  receiving,  and  even  inviting,  relations  and  neighbors 
long  neglected.  They  exhibited  a kind  of  simple  and  tender  ostenta- 
tion in  showing  how  polite  and  sociable  the  young  Count  Rudolstadt 
had  become,  and  Consuelo,  seemed  to  exact  from  him,  by  her  looks 
and  example,  the  fulfilment  of  the  wishes  of  his  relations,  in  exercis- 
ing the  duties  of  a hospitable  host,  and  displaying  the  manners  of  a 
man  of  the  world. 

This  sudden  transformation  cost  him  a good  deal:  he  submitted  to 
it,  however,  to  please  her  he  loved,  but  he  would  have  been  better 
satisfied  with  longer  conversations  and  a less  interrupted  intercourse 
with  her.  He  patiently  endured  whole  days  of  constraint  and  annoy- 
ance, in  order  to  obtain  in  the  evening  a word  of  encouragement  or 
gratitude.  Bu*  when  the  canoness  came,  like  an  unwelcome  spectre, 


CONSUELO. 


236 


and  placed  *ierself  between  them,  he  felt  liis  soul  troubled  and  hi* 
■trength  abandon  him.  He  passed  nights  of  torment,  and  often  ap* 
proached  the  cistern,  which  remained  clear  and  pellucid  since  the  day 
ne  had  ascended  from  it,  bearing  Consuelo  in  his  arms.  Plunged  in 
mournful  reverie,  he  almost  cursed  the  oath  which  bound  him  never 
to  return  to  his  hermitage.  He  was  terrified  to  feel  himself  thus  un- 
iappy,  and  not  to  have  the  power  of  burying  his  grief  in  his  subter- 
ranean retreat. 

The  change  in  his  features  after  this  sleeplessness,  and  the  transi- 
tory but  gradually  more  frequent  return  of  his  gloomy  and  distracted 
air  could  not  fail  to  excite  the  observation  of  his  relatives  and  friend ; 
but  the  latter  found  means  to  disperse  these  clouds  and  regain  her 
empire  over  him  whenever  it  was  threatened.  She  commenced  to 
Bing,  and  immediately  the  young  count,  charmed  or  subdued,  was 
consoled  by  tears,  or  animated  with  new  enthusiasm.  This  was  an 
infallible  remedy;  and  when  he  was  able  to  address  a few  words  t< 
her  in  private,  “ Consuelo,”  he  exclaimed,  “ you  know  the  paths  t< 
my  soul : you  possess  the  power  refused  to  the  common  herd,  and 
possess  it  more  than  any  other  being  in  this  world.  You  speak  in 
language  divine;  you  know  how  to  express  the  most  sublime  emo- 
tions, and  communicate  the  impulses  of  your  own  inspired  soul. 
Sing  always  when  you  see  me  downcast ; the  words  of  your  songs 
have  but  little  sense  for  me,  they  are  but  the  theme,  the  imperfect  in- 
dication on  which  the  music  turns  and  is  developed.  I hardly  hear 
them ; what  alone  I hear,  and  what  penetrates  into  my  very  soul,  is 
your  voice,  your  accent,  your  inspiration.  Music  expresses  all  that 
the  mind  dreams  and  foresees  of  mystery  and  grandeur.  It  is  the 
manifestation  of  a higher  order  of  ideas  and  sentiments  than  any  to 
which  human  speech  can  give  expression.  It  is  the  revelation  of  the 
infinite;  and  when  you  sing,  I only  belong  to  humanity  in  so  far  as 
humanity  has  drunk  in  what  is  divine  and  eternal  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Creator.  All  that  your  lips  refuse  of  consolation  and  support  in  the 
ordinary  routine  of  life — all  that  social  tyranny  forbids  your  heart  to 
reveal — your  songs  convey  to  me  a hundredfold.  You  then  respond 
to  me  with  your  whole  soul,  and  my  soul  replies  to  yours  in  hope 
and  fear,  in  transports  of  enthusiasm  and  rapture.” 

Sometimes  Albert  spoke  thus,  in  Spanish,  to  Consuelo  in  presence 
of  his  family ; but  the  evident  annoyance  which  the  canoness  experi- 
enced, as  well  as  a sense  of  propriety,  prevented  the  young-girl  from 
replying.  At  length  one  day  when  they  were  alone  in  the  garden, 
and  he  again  spoke  of  the  pleasures  he  felt  in  hearing  her  sing : 

“ Since  music  is  a language  more  complete  and  more  persuasive 
that  that  of  words,”  said  she,  “why  do  you  not  speak  thus  to  me, 
you  who  understand  it  better  than  Ido?” 

u I do  not  understand  you,  Consuelo,”  said  the  young  count,  sur- 
prised; “ I am  only  a musician  in  listening  to  you.” 

“ Do  not  endeavor  to  deceive  me,”  she  replied ; “ I never  but  once 
heard  sounds  divinely  human  drawn  from  the  violin,  and  it  was  by 
you,  Albert,  in  the  grotto  of  the  Schreckenstein.  I heard  you  that  day 
before  you  saw  me ; I discovered  your  secret ; but  you  must  forgive 
me,  and  allow  me  again  to  hear  that  delightful  air,  of  which  I recoi 
leet  a few  bars,  and  which  revealed  to  me  beauties  in  music,  to  which  J. 
was  previously  a stranger.” 

Consuelo  sang  in  a low  tone  a few  phrases  which  she  recollected 
Indistinctly,  but  which  Albert  immediately  recognized. 


is 

■n 

> 


236 


COS8UKLO. 


44  It  Is  a popular  hymn,”  said  he,  44  on  some  Hussite  words.  Th« 
words  are  by  my  ancestor,  Hyncko  Podiebrad,  the  son  of  King 
George,  and  one  of  the  poets  of  the  country.  We  have  an  immense 
number  of  admirable  poems  by  Streye,  Simon  Lomnicky,  and  many 
others,  which  are  prohibited  by  the  police.  These  religious  and  na- 
tional songs,  set  to  music  by  the  unknown  geniuses  of  Bohemia  are 
not  all  preserved  in  the  memory  of  her  inhabitants.  The  people  re- 
tain some  of  them,  however,  and  Zdenko,  who  has  an  extraordinary 
memory  and  an  excellent  taste  for  music,  knows  a great  many,  which 
I have  collected  and  arranged.  They  are  very  beautiful,  and  you  will 
have  pleasure  in  learning  them.  But  I can  only  let  you  hear  them 
in  my  hermitage ; my  violin,  with  all  my  music,  is  there.  I have 
there  precious  manuscripts,  collections  of  ancient  Catholic  and  Prot- 
estant authors.  I will  wager  that  you  do  not  know  either  Josquin, 
many  of  whose  themes  Luther  has  transmitted  to  us  in  his  choruses, 
nor  the  younger  Claude,  nor  Arcadelt,  nor  George  Rliaw,  nor  Benoit 
Ducis,  nor  John  de  Wiess.  Would  not  this  curious  research  induce 
you,  dear  Consuelo,  to  pay  another  visit  to  my  grotto,  from  which  I 
have  been  exiled  so  long  a time,  and  to  visit  my  church,  which  you 
have  not  yet  seen  ? ” 

This  proposal,  although  it  excited  the  curiosity  of  the  young  artiste, 
was  tremblingly  listened  to.  This  frightful  grotto  recalled  recollec- 
tions which  she  could  not  think  of  without  a shudder,  and  in  spite  of 
all  the  confidence  she  placed  in  him,  the  idea  of  returning  there  alone 
with  Albert  caused  a painful  emotion,  which  he  quickly  perceived. 

44  You  dislike  the  idea  of  this  pilgrimage,”  said  he,  44  which  never- 
theless you  promised  to  renew : let  us  speak  of  it  no  more.  Faithful 
to  my  oath,  I shall  never  undertake  it  without  you.” 

44  You  remind  me  of  mine,  Albert,”  she  replied,  44  and  I shall  fulfill 
it  as  soon  as  you  ask  it ; but,  my  dear  doctor,  you  forget  that  I have 
not  yet  the  necessary  strength.  Would  you  not  first  permit  me  to  see 
this  curious  music,  and  hear  this  admirable  artist,  who  plays  on  the 
violin  much  better  than  I sing  ? ” 

44 1 know  not  if  you  jest,  dear  sister,  but  this  I know,  that  you  shall 
hear  me  nowhere  but  in  my  grotto.  It  was  there  I first  tried  to  make 
my  violin  express  the  feelings  of  my  heart;  for,  although  I had  for 
many  years  a brilliant  and  frivolous  professor,  largely  paid  by  my 
father,  I did  not  understand  it.  It  was  there  I learned  what  true 
music  is,  and  what  a sacrilegious  mockery  is  substituted  for  it  by  the 
greater  portion  of  mankind.  For  my  own  part,  I declare  that  I could 
not  draw  a sound  from  my  violin,  if  my  spirit  were  not  bowed  before 
the  divinity.  Were  I even  to  see  you  unmoved  beside  me,  attentive 
merely  to  the  composition  of  the  pieces  I play  and  curious  to  scruti- 
nize my  talent,  I doubt  not  that  I would  play  so  ill  that  you  would 
soon  weary  of  listening  to  me.  I have  never,  since  I knew  how  to 
use  it,  touched  the  instrument  consecrated  by  me  to  the  praise  of 
God  or  to  the  expression  of  my  ardent  prayers,  without  feeling  my- 
self transported  into  an  ideal  world,  and  without  obeying  a sort  of 
mysterious  inspiration  not  always  under  my  control.” 

44 1 am  not  unworthy/  replied  Consuelo,  deeply  impressed  and  al 
attention,  44  to  romprehend  your  feelings  with  regard  to  music.  - 
hope  soon  to  be  able  to  join  your  prayer  with  a soul  so  fervent  an* 
collected  that  my  presence  shall  not  interfere  with  your  inspiration. 
Ah,  my  dear  Albert,  why  cannot  my  master  Porpora  hear  what  you 
tay  of  the  heavenly  art?  He  would  throw  himself  at  your  feet 


CONSUELO, 


28T 


nevertheless,  this  great  artist  himFelf  is  ^ss  severe  in  his  views  <n 
this  subject  than  you  are.  He  thi  nks  the  singer  and  the  virtuoso 
should  draw  their  inspiration  from  the  sympathy  and  admiration  of 
their  auditory.” 

“ It  is  perhaps  because  Porpora  confounds,  in  music,  religious  set* 
timent  with  human  thought,  and  that  he  looks  upon  sacred  music 
with  the  eyes  of  a Catholic.  If  I were  in  his  place  I would  reason  as 
he  does.  If  I were  in  a communion  of  faith  and  sympathy  with  » 
people  professing  the  same  worship  as  myself,  I would  seek  in  contact 
with  these  souls,  animated  with  a like  religious  sentiment,  the  inspira 
tion  which  heretofore  I have  been  forced  to  court  in  solitude,  and 
which  consequently  I have  hitherto  imperfectly  realized.  If  ever  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  mingling  the  tones  of  my  violin  with  those  of 
your  divine  voice,  Consuelo,  doubtless  I would  ascend  higher  than  I 
have  ever  done,  and  my  prayer  would  be  more  worthy  of  the  Deity. 
But  do  not  forget,  dear  child,  that  up  to  this  day  my  opinions  have 
been  an  abomination  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  surrounded  me,  and 
that  those  whom  they  failed  to  shock,  would  have  turned  them  into 
ridicule.  This  is  why  I have  hidden  as  a secret  between  God,  poor 
Zdenko,  and  myself,  the  humble  gift  which  I possess.  My  father  likes 
music,  and  would  have  this  instrument,  which  is  sacred  to  me  as  the 
cymbals  of  the  Elusinian  mysteries,  conduce  to  his  amusement. 
What  would  become  of  me  if  they  were  to  ask  me  to  accompany  a 
cavatina  for  Amelia?  and  what  would  be  my  father’s  feelings  if 
I were  to  play  one  of  those  old  Hussite  airs  which  have  sent  so  many 
Bohemians  into  the  mines  or  to  the  scaffold  ? or  a more  modem 
hymn  of  our  Lutheran  ancestors,  from  whom  he  blushes  to  have  de- 
scended ? Alas ! Consuelo,  I know  nothing  more  modern.  There  are, 
no  doubt,  admirable  things  of  a later  date.  From  what  you  tell  me  of 
Handel  and  the  other  great  masters  from  whose  works  you  have 
been  instructed,  their  music  would  seem  to  me  superior  in  many  re- 
spects to  that  which  I am  about  to  teach  you.  But  to  know  and 
learn  this  music,  it  would  be  necessary  to  put  myself  in  relation  with 
another  musical  world,  and  it  is  with  you  alone  that  I can  resolve  to 
do  so — with  you  alone  I can  seek  the  despised  or  neglected  treasure 
which  you  are  about  to  bestow  on  me  in  overflowing  measure.” 

“And  I,”  said  Consuelo,  smiling,  “ think  I shall  not  undertake  the 
charge  of  this  education.  What  I heard  in  the  grotto  was  so  beauti- 
ful,  so  grand,  so  incomparable,  that  I should  fear  in  doing  so,  only  to 
muddy  a spring  of  crystal.  Oh ! Albert,  I see  plainly  that  you  know 
more  of  music  than  I do.  And  now  what  will  you  say  to  the  profane 
music  of  which  I am  forced  to  be  a professor  ? I fear  to  discover  in 
this  case,  as  in  the  other,  that  I have  hitherto  been  beneath  my  mis- 
sion, and  guilty  of  equal  ignorance  and  frivolity.” 

“ Far  from  thinking  so,  Consuelo,  I look  upon  your  profession  as 
•acred ; and  as  it  is  the  loftiest  which  a woman  can  embrace,  so  is 
your  soul  the  most  worthy  to  fill  such  an  office.” 

“ Stay— stay — dear  count,”  replied  Consuelo,  smiling.  u From  my 
often  speaking  to  you  of  the  convent  where  I learned  music,  and  the 
church  where  I sung  the  praises  of  God,  you  conclude  that  I waa 
destined  to  the  service  of  the  altar,  or  the  modest  teachings  of  the 
cloister.  But  if  I should  inform  you  that  the  zingarella,  faithful  to 
her  origin,  was  from  infancy  the  sport  of  circumstances,  and  that  her 
education  was  at  once  a mixture  of  religious  and  profane,  tq  which 
her  will  was  equally  inclined,  careless  whether  it  were  in  the  monae* 
tery  or  the  theatre 1 * 


C O N 3 l'  1$  L 0. 


m 

" Certain  ‘.hat  God  has  placed  his  seal  on  your  forehead  and  devoted 
you  to  holiness  from  your  mother’s  w<  mb,  I should  not  trouble  my- 
self about  these  things,  but  retain  the  conviction  that  you  would  be 
as  pure  in  the  theatre  as  in  the  cloister.” 

“ What!  would  not  your  strict  ideas  of  morality  be  shocked  at  being 
brought  in  contact  with  an  actress  ? ” 

“ In  the  dawn  of  religion,”  said  he,  “ the  theatre  and  the  temple 
were  one  and  the  same  sanctuary.  In  the  purity  of  their  primitive 
ideas,  religious  worship  took  the  form  of  popular  shows.  The  arts 
nave  their  birth  at  the  foot  of  the  altar.  The  dance  itself,  that  art 
now  consecrated  to  ideas  of  impure  voluptuousness,  was  the  music  of 
the  senses  in  the  festivals  of  the  gods.  Music  and  poetry  were  the 
highest  expressions  of  faith,  and  woman  endowed  with  genius  and 
beauty  was  at  once  a sybil  and  priestess.  To  these  severely  grand 
forms  of  the  past,  absurd  and  culpable  distinctions  succeeded.  Re- 
ligion proscribed  beauty  from  its  festivals,  and  woman  from  its 
solemnities.  Instead  of  ennobling  and  directing  love,  it  banished  and 
condemned  it.  Beauty,  woman,  love,  cannot  lose  their  empire.  Men 
have  raised  for  themselves  other  temples  which  they  call  theatres, 
and  where  no  other  god  presides.  Is  it  your  fault,  Consuelo,  if  they 
have  become  dens  of  corruption  ? Nature,  who  perfects  her  prodigies 
without  troubling  herself  as  to  how  men  may  receive  them,  has 
formed  you  to  shine  among  your  sex,  and  to  shed  over  the  world  the 
treasures  of  your  power  and  genius. — The  cloister  and  the  tomb  are 
synonymous : you  cannot,  without  morally  committing  suicide,  bury 
the  gifts  of  providence.  You  were  obliged  to  wing  your  flight  to  a freer 
atmosphere.  Energy  is  the  condition  of  certain  natures ; an  irresisti- 
ble impulse  impels  them ; and  the  decrees  of  the  Deity  in  this  respect 
are  so  decided,  that  he  takes  away  the  faculties  which  he  has  bestow- 
ed , so  soon  as  they  are  neglected.  The  artist  perishes  and  becomes 
extinct  in  obscurity,  just  as  the  thinker  wanders  and  pines  in  solitude, 
and  just  as  all  human  intellect  is  deteriorated,  and  weakened,  and  en- 
ervated, by  inaction  and  isolation.  Repair  to  the  theatre,  Consuelo, 
if  you  please,  and  submit  with  resignation  to  the  apparent  degrada- 
tion, as  the  representative  for  the  moment  of  a soul  destined  to  suffer, 
of  a lofty  mind  which  vainly  seeks  for  sympathy  in  the  world  around 
us,  but  which  is  forced  to  abjure  a melancholy  that  is  not  the  element 
of  its  life,  and  out  of  which  the  breath  of  the  Holy  Spirit  imperiously 
expels  it.” 

Albert  continued  to  speak  in  this  strain  for  a considerable  time  with 

geat  animation,  hurrying  Consuelo  on  to  the  recesses  of  his  retreat. 

e had  little  difficulty  in  communicating  to  her  his  own  enthusiasm 
for  art,  as  in  making  her  forget  her  first  feeling  of  repugnance  to  re- 
enter  the  grotto.  When  she  saw  that  he  anxiously  desired  it,  she  bo* 
gan  to  entertain  a wish  for  this  interview,  in  order  to  become  better 
acquainted  with  the  ideas  which  this  ardent  yet  timid  man  darecf  to 
express  before  her  so  boldly.  These  ideas  were  new  to  Consuelo,  and 
perhaps  they  were  entirely  so  in  the  mouth  of  a person  of  noble  rank 
of  that  time  and  country.  They  only  struck  her  however  as  the  bold 
and  frank  expression  of  sentiments  which  she  herself  had  frequently 
experienced  in  all  their  force.  Devout,  and  an  actress,  she  every  day 
heard  the  canoness  and  the  chaplain  unceasingly  condemn  her  breth- 
ren of  the  stage.  In  seeing  herself  restored  to  her  proper  sphere  by  a 
aerious  and  reflecting  man,  she  felt  her  heart  throb  and  her  bosom 
swell  with  exultation,  as  if  she  had  been  carried  up  into  a mom  ite» 


CONSUELO, 


239 


vated  and  xmgeniol  life.  Her  eyes  were  moistened  with  tears  and 
her  cheeks  glowed  with  a pure  and  holy  emotion,  when  at  the  end  of 
an  avenue  she  perceived  the  canoness,  who  was  seeking  her. 

“Alii  dear  priestess,”  saic.  Albert,  pressing  her  arm  against  hl» 
breast,  “ will  you  not  come  to  pray  in  my  church  ? ” 

“ Yes,  certainly  I shall  go,”  she  replied. 

“ And  when  ? ” 

“Whenever  you  wish.  Do  you  think  I am  able  yet  to  undertaka 
this  new  exploit?  ” 

“ Yes;  because  we  shall  go  to  the  Schreckenstein  in  broad  daylight 
and  by  a less  dangerous  route  than  the  well.  Do  you  feel  sufficient 
courage  to  rise  before  the  dawn  and  to  escape  through  the  gates  &a 
soon  as  they  are  opened  ? I shall  be  in  this  underwood  which  you  see 
at  the  side  of  the  hill  there  by  the  stone  cross,  and  shall  serve  as  your 
guide.” 

“ Very  well,  I promise,”  replied  Consuelo,  not  without  a slight  pal- 
pitation of  heart. 

“It  appears  rather  cool  this  evening  for  so  long  a walk — does  it 
not?  ” asked  the  canoness,  accosting  them  in  her  calm  yet  searching 
manner. 

Albert  made  no  reply.  He  could  not  dissemble.  Consuelo,  who 
did  not  experience  equal  emotion,  passed  her  other  arm  within  that 
of  the  canoness,  and  kissed  her  neck.  Wenceslawa  vainly  pretended 
indifference,  but  in  spite  of  herself  she  submitted  to  the  ascendancy 
of  this  devout  and  affectionate  spirit.  She  sighed,  and  on  entering 
the  castle  proceeded  to  put  up  a prayer  for  her  conversion. 


CHAPTER  LIL 

Manx  days  passed  away  however  without  Alberti  wish  being  ac 
complished.  It  was  in  vain  that  Consuelo  rose  before  the  dawn  and 
passed  the  drawbridge;  she  always  found  his  aunt  or  the  chaplain 
wandering  on  the  esplanade,  and  from  thence  reconnoitering  all  the 
open  country  which  she  must  traverse  in  order  to  gain  the  copsewood 
on  the  hill.  She  determined  to  walk  alone  within  range  of  their  ob- 
servation, and  give  up  the  project  of  joining  Albert,  who,  from  hil 
green  and  wooded  retreat,  recognized  the  enemy  on  the  look-out,  took 
a long  walk  in  the  forest  glades ; and  re-entered  the  castle  without  be- 
ing perceived. 

“ You  have  had  an  opportunity  of  enjoying  an  early  walk,  Signora 
Porporina,”  said  the  canoness  at  breakfast.  “ Were  you  not  afraid 
that  the  dampness  of  the  morning  might  be  injuiious  to  your 
health  ? ” 

“ It  was  I,  aunt,  who  advised  the  signora  to  breathe  the  freshness  of 
the  morning  air;  and  I think  these  walks  will  be  very  useful  to  her.” 

“ I should  have  thought  that,  for  a person  who  devotes  herself  to  the 
cultivation  of  her  voice,”  said  the  canoness,  with  a little  affectation, 
* our  mornings  are  somewhat  foggy.  But  if  it  is  under  your  direo* 
tions ” 

“ Have  confidence  in  Albert,”  interrupted  Count  Christian ; “ he  has 
proved  himself  as  good  a physician  as  he  is  a good  son  and  a faithfal 


CONSUELO, 


*40 

The  dissimulation  to  which  Consuelo  was  forced  to  yield  with 
blushes,  was  very  painful  to  her.  She  complained  gently  to  Albert 
when  she  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him  in  private,  and  begged 
him  to  renounce  his  project,  at  least  until  his  aunt’s  vigilance  should 
be  foiled.  Albert  consented,  but  entreated  her  to  continue  her  walks 
in  the  environs  of  the  park,  so  that  he  might  join  her  whenever  an  op- 
portunity presented  itself. 

Consuelo  would  gladly  have  been  excused,  although  she  liked  walk- 
ing. and  felt  how  necessary  to  her  convalescence  it  was,  to  enjoy  ex- 
ercise for  some  time  every  day,  free  from  the  restraint  of  this  enclos- 
ure of  walls  and  moats,  where  her  thoughts  were  stifled  as  if  she  had 
been  a prisoner ; yet  it  gave  her  pain  thus  to  practise  deception  to- 
wards those  whom  she  respected,  and  from  whom  she  received  hospi- 
tality. Love,  however,  removes  many  obstacles,  but  friendship  reflects 
and  Consuelo  reflected  much.  They,  were  now  enjoying  the  last  fine 
days  of  summer ; for  several  months  had  passed  since  Consuelo  had 
come  to  dwell  in  the  Castle  of  the  Giants.  What  a summer  for  Con- 
suelo ! The  palest  autumn  of  Italy  was  more  light,  and  rich,  and 
genial.  But  this  warm,  moist  air,  this  sky,  often  veiled  by  white  and 
fleecy  clouds,  had  also  their  charm  and  their  peculiar  beauty.  She 
found  an  attraction  in  these  solitary  walks,  which  increased  perhaps 
her  disinclination  to  revisit  the  cavern.  In  spite  of  the  resolution  she 
had  formed,  she  felt  that  Albert  would  take  a load  from  her  bosom 
in  giving  her  back  her  promise;  and  when  she  found  herself  no  longer 
under  the  spell  of  his  supplicating  looks  and  enthusiastic  words,  she 
secretly  blessed  his  good  aunt,  who  prevented  her  fulfilling  her  engage- 
ment by  the  obstacles  she  every  day  placed  in  the  way. 

One  morning,  as  she  wandered  along  the  bank  of  the  mountain 
streamlet,  she  observed  Albert  leaning  on  the  balustrade  of  the  par- 
terre, far  above  her.  Notwithstanding  the  distance  which  separated 
them,  she  felt  as  if  incessantly  under  the  disturbed  and  passionate 
gaze  of  this  man,  by  whom  she  suffered  herself  in  so  great  a degree  to 
be  governed.  “ My  situation  here  is  somewhat  strange  ! ” she  ex- 
claimed; “ while  this  persevering  friend  observes  me  to  see  that  I am 
faithful  to  the  promise  I have  made,  without  doubt  I am  watched  from 
some  other  part  of  the  castle,  to  see  that  I maintain  no  relations  with 
him  that  their  customs  and  ideas  of  propriety  would  proscribe.  I do 
not  know  what  is  passing  in  their  minds.  The  Baroness  Amelia  does 
not  return.  The  canoness  appears  to  grow  cold  towards  me,  and  to* 
distrust  me.  Count  Christian  redoubles  his  attentions,  and  expresses 
his  dread  of  the  arrival  of  Porpora,  which  will  probably  be  the  signal 
for  my  departure.  Albert  appears  to  have  forgotten  that  I forbade 
him  to  hope.  As  if  he  had  a right  to  expect  everything  from  me,  he 
asks  nothing,  and  does  not  abjure  a passion  which  seems,  notwith- 
standing my  inability  to  return  it,  to  render  him  happy.  In  the  mean 
time,  here  I am,  as  if  I were  engaged  in  attending  every  morning  at 
an  appointed  place  of  meeting,  to  which  I wish  he  may  not  come,  ex- 
posing myself  to  the  blame — nay,  for  aught  I know,  perhaps  to  the 
scorn — of  a family  who  cannot  understand  either  my  friendship  for 
him  nor  my  position  towards  him ; since  indeed  I do  not  comprehend 
them  myself  nor  foresee  their  result. 

“ What  a strange  destiny  is  mine ! Shall  I then  be  condemned  for- 
ever to  devote  myself  to  others,  without  being  loved  in  return,  or  with- 
out being  able  to  love  those  whom  I esteem  ? ” 

Jo  the  midst  of  these  reflections  a profound  melancholy  seized  her, 


CONBUELO. 


241 


She  felt  the  necessity  of  belonging  to  herself— that  sovereign  and  legit- 
imate want,  the  necessary  condition  of  progress  and  development  of 
the  true  artist.  The  watchful  care  which  she  had  promised  to  observe 
towards  Count  Albert,  weighed  upon  her  as  an  iron  chain.  The  bit- 
ter recollections  of  Anzoleto  and  of  Venice  clung  to  her,  in  the  inac- 
tion and  solitude  of  a life  too  monotonous  and  regular  for  her  power- 
fill  organization. 

She  stopped  near  the  rock  which  Albert  had  often  shown  her  as 
being  the  place  where  he  had  first  seen  her,  an  infant,  tied  with  thongs 
on  her  mother’s  shoulders  like  the  pedlar’s  pack,  and  running  over 
mountains  and  valleys,  like  the  grasshopper  of  the  fable,  heedless  of 
the  morrow,  and  without  a thought  of  advancing  old  age  and  inexor- 
able poverty.  “ O,  my  poor  mother ! ” thought  the  young  zingarella, 
“here  am  I,  brought  back  by  my  incomprehensible  fate  to  a spot  which 
you  once  traversed  only  to  retain  a vague  recollection  of  it  and  the 
pledge  of  a touching  kindness.  You  were  then  young  and  handsome, 
and  doubtless  could  have  met  many  a place  where  love  and  hospitality 
would  have  awaited  you — society  which  would  have  absolved  and 
transformed  you,  and  in  the  bosom  of  which  your  painful  and  wander- 
ing life  would  have  at  last  tasted  comfort  and  repose.  But  you  felt, 
and  always  said,  that  this  comfort,  this  repose,  were  mortal  weariness 
to  the  artist’s  soul.  You  were  right— I feel  it;  for  behold  me  in  this 
castle,  where,  as  elsewhere,  you  would  pause  but  one  night.  Here  I 
am,  with  every  comfort  around  me,  pampered,  caressed,  and  with  a 
powerful  lord  at  my  feet:  and  nevertheless,  I am  weary,  weary,  and 
suffocated  with  restraint.” 

Consuelo,  overpowered  with  an  extraordinary  emotion,  seated  her- 
self on  the  rock.  She  looked  at  the  sandy  path,  as  if  she  thought  to 
find  there  the  print  of  her  mother’s  naked  feet.  The  sheep  in  pass- 
ing had  left  some  locks  of  their  fleece  upon  the  thorns.  This  fleece, 
of  a reddish  brown,  recalled  the  russet  hue  of  her  mother’s  coarse 
mantle — that  mantle  which  had  so  long  protected  her  against  sun  and 
cold,  against  dust  and  rain.  She  had  seen  it  fall  from  her  shoulders 
piece  by  piece.  “And  we,  too,”  she  said,  “ were  wandering  sheep; 
we,  too,  left  fragments  of  our  apparel  on  the  wayside  thorn,  but  we 
always  bore  along  with  us  the  proud  love  and  the  full  enjoyment  of 
our  dear  liberty.” 

While  musing  thus,  Consuelo  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  path  of  yel- 
low sand  which  wound  gracefully  over  the  hill,  and  which,  widening 
as  it  reached  the  valley,  disappeared  towards  the  north  among  the 
green  pine-trees  and  the  dark  heath.  “ What  is  more  beautiful  than 
a road  ? ” she  thought.  “ It  is  the  symbol  and  image  of  a life  of 
activity  and  variety.  What  pleasing  ideas  are  connected  in  my  mind 
with  the  capricious  turns  of  this!  I do  not  recollect  the  country 
through  which  it  winds,  and  yet  I have  formerly  passed  through  it 
But  it  should  indeed  be  beautiful,  were  it  only  as  a contrast  to  yonder 
dark  castle,  which  sleeps  eternally  on  its  immovable  rocks.  How 
much  pleasanter  to  the  eye  are  these  gravelled  paths,  with  their  glow- 
ing hue,  and  the  golden  broom  which  shadow  them,  than  the  straight 
alleys  and  stiff  paling  of  the  proud  domain?  With  merely  looking  at 
the  formal  lines  of  a garden,  I feel  wearied  and  overcome.  Why 
should  my  feet  seek  to  reach  that  which  my  eyes  and  thoughts  can  at 
once  embrace,  while  the  free  road,  which  turns  aside  and  is  half  hid- 
den in  the  woods,  invites  me  to  follow  its  windings  and  penetrate  its 
mysteries?  And  then  it  is  the  path  for  all  human  kind — It  is  th§ 


242 


lONSOELO. 


highway  of  the  v orld.  It  belongs  to  no  master,  to  close  and  open  It  at 
pleasure.  It  is  only  the  powerful  and  rich  that  are  entitled  to  tread 
Its  flowery  margins  and  to  breathe  its  rich  perfume.  Every  bird  may 
build  its  nest  amid  its  branches ; every  wanderer  may  repose  his  head 
upon  its  stones — nor  wall  nor  paling  shuts  out  his  horizon.  Heaven 
does  not  close  before  him ; so  far  as  his  eye  can  reach,  the  highway  is 
a land  of  liberty.  To  the  right,  to  the  left,  woods,  fields — all  have 
masters;  but  the  road  belongs  to  him  to  whom  nothing  else  belongs, 
and  how  fondly  therefore  does  he  love  it ! The  meanest  beggar  pre- 
fers it  to  asylums,  which,  were  they  rich  as  palaces,  would  be  but 

Erisons  to  him.  His  dream,  his  passion,  his  hope,  will  ever  be  the 
ighway.  O,  my  mother,  you  knew  it  well,  and  often  told  me  so  1 
Why  cannot  I reanimate  your  ashes  which  repose  far  from  me,  be- 
neath the  seaweed  of  the  lagunes  ? Why  canst  thou  not  carry  me  on 
thy  strong  shoulders,  and  bear  me  far,  far  away,  where  the  swallow 
skims  onward  to  the  blue  and  distant  hills,  and  where  the  memory  of 
the  past  and  the  longings  after  vanished  happiness,  cannot  follow  the 
light-footed  artist,  who  travels  still  faster  than  they  do,  and  each  day 
places  a new  horizon,  a second  world,  between  her  and  the  enemies 
of  liberty?  My  poor  mother,  why  canst  thou  not  still  by  turns  cher- 
ish and  oppress  me,  and  lavish  alternate  kisses  and  blows,  like  the 
wind  which  sometimes  caresses  and  sometimes  lays  prostrate  the 
young  corn  upon  the  fields,  to  raise  and  cast  it  down  again  according 
to  its  fantasy?  Thou  hadst  a firmer  soul  than  mine,  and  thou 
wouldst  have  torn  me,  either  willingly  or  by  force,  from  the  bonds 
which  daily  entangle  me ! ” 

In  the  midst  of  this  entrancing  yet  mournful  reverie,  Consuelo  was 
•truck  by  the  tones  of  a voice  that  made  her  start  as  if  a red-hot  iron 
had  been  placed  upon  her  heart.  It  was  that  of  a man  from  the  ra- 
vine below,  humming  in  the  Venetian  dialect  the  song  of  the  “ Echo,” 
one  of  the  most  original  compositions  of  Chiozzetto.*  The  person 
who  sung  did  not  exert  the  full  power  of  his  voice,  and  his  breathing 
seemed  affected  by  walking.  He  warbled  a few  notes  now  and  then, 
stopping  from  time  to  time  to  converse  with  another  person,  just  as  if 
he  had  wished  to  dissipate  the  weariness  of  his  journey.  He  then  re- 
sumed his  song  as  before,  as  if  by  way  of  exercise,  interrupted  it 
again  to  speak  to  his  companion,  and  in  this  manner  approached  the 
spot  where  Consuelo  sat,  motionless,  and  as  if  about  to  faint.  She 
could  not  hear  the  conversation  which  took  place,  as  the  distance  was 
too  great ; nor  could  she  see  the  travellers  in  consequence  of  an  in- 
tervening projection  of  the  rock.  But  could  she  be  for  an  instant  de- 
ceived in  that  voice,  in  those  accents,  which  she  knew  so  well,  and 
the  fragments  of  that  song  which  she  herself  had  taught,  and  so  often 
made  her  graceless  pupil  repeat  ? 

At  length  the  two  invisible  travellers  drew  near,  and  she  heard  one 
whose  voice  was  unknown  to  her,  say  to  the  other,  in  bad  Italian, 
and  with  the  patois  of  the  country,  “ Ah,  signor,  do  not  go  up  there 
— the  horses  could  not  follow  you,  and  you  would  lose  sight  of  me; 
keep  by  the  banks  of  the  stream.  See,  the  road  lies  before  us,  and 
the  way  you  are  taking  is  only  a path  for  foot-passengers.” 

The  voice  whi  :h  Consuelo  knew  became  more  distant,  and  appeared 
to  descend,  and  soon  she  heard  him  ask  what  fine  castle  that  was  on 
the  other  side 


Qr*m  ds  Oklogfta,  tbrieestil  asstargr. 


CONflTJKLO. 


248 


* That  Is  Relssnburg,  which  means  the  Castle  of  the  Giants,”  re- 
plied the  guide,  for  he  was  one  by  profession,  and  Consuelo  could  now 
distinguish  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  on  foot,  and  leading  two 
horses  covered  with  sweat.  The  bad  state  of  the  roads,  recently  in- 
undated by  the  torrent,  had  obliged  the  riders  to  dismount.  The 
traveller  followed  at  a little  distance,  and  Consuelo  could  at  length 
see  him  by  .leaning  over  the  rock  which  protected  her.  His  back  wai 
towards  her,  and  "he  wore  a travelling-dress,  which  so  altered  his  ap- 
pearance, and  even  his  walk,  that,  had  she  not  heard  his  voice,  she 
could  not  have  recognised  him.  He  stopped,  however,  to  look  at  the 
castle,  and  taking  off  his  broad-leafed  hat,  wiped  his  face  with  his 
handkerchief.  Although  only  able  to  distinguish  him  imperfectly 
from  the  great  height  at  which  she  was  placed,  she  knew  at  once 
those  golden  and  flowing  locks,  and  recognised  the  movement  he  was 
accustomed  to  make  in  raising  them  from  his  forehead  or  neck  when 
he  was  warm. 

“ This  seems  a very  fine  castle,”  said  he.  “ If  I had  time,  I should 
.ike  to  ask  the  giants  for  some  breakfast.” 

“ Oh,  do  not  attempt  it,”  said  the  guide,  shaking  his  head.  “ The 
Rudolstadts  only  receive  beggars  and  relations.” 
u Are  they  not  more  hospitable  than  that  ? May  the  devil  seise 
them,  then ! ” 

“ Listen — it  is  because  they  have  something  to  conceal.” 

“ A treasure  or  a crime  ? ” 

“ Oh,  nothing  of  that  kind ; it  is  their  son,  who  is  mad.” 
w Deuce  take  him,  too,  then ; it  would  do  them  a service.” 

The  guide  began  to  laugh ; Anzoleto  commenced  to  sing. 

“ Come,”  said  the  guide,  “ we  are  now  over  the  worst  of  the  road; 
If  you  wish  to  mount,  we  may  gallop  as  far  as  Tusta.  The  road  is 
magnificent— nothing  but  sand.  Once  there,  you  will  find  the  high- 
way to  Prague,  and  excellent  post-horses.” 

“ In  that  case,”  said  Anzoleto,  adjusting  his  stirrups,  “ I may  say 
the  fiends  seize  thee,  too!  for  your  jades,  your  mountain  roads,  and 
yourself,  are  all  becoming  very  tiresome.” 

Thus  speaking,  he  slowly  mounted  his  nag,  sunk  the  spurs  In  its 
side,  and  without  troubling  himself  about  the  guide,  who  followed  him 
with  great  difficulty,  he  darted  off  towards  the  north,  raising  clouds 
of  dust  on  that  road  which  Consuelo  had  so  long  contemplated,  and  on 
which  she  had  so  little  expected  to  see  pass,  like  a fatal  vision,  the  enemy 
of  her  life,  the  constant  torture  of  her  heart.  She  followed  him  with 
her  eyes,  in  a state  of  stupor  impossible  to  express.  Struck  with  dis- 
gust and  fear,  so  long  as  she  was  within  hearing  of  his  voice,  she  had 
remained  hidden  and  trembling.  13u*  when  he  disappeared,  when 
she  thought  she  had  lost  sight  of  him  perhaps  for  ever,  she  experi- 
enced only  violent  despair.  She  threw  herself  over  the  rock  to  see 
him  for  a longer  time ; the  undying  love  which  she  cherished  for  him 
awoke  again  with  fervor,  and  she  would  have  recalled  him,  but  her 
voice  died  on  her  lips.  The  hand  of  death  seemed  to  press  heavily 
on  her  bosom ; her  eyes  grew  dim ; a dull  noise,  like  the  dashing  of 
the  sea,  murmured  in  her  ears;  and  falling  exhausted  at  the  foot  of 
the  rock,  she  found  herself  in  the  arms  of  Albert,  who  had  ap- 
proached without  being  perceived,  and  who  bore  her,  apparently  dp 
Big,  to  a more  shady  anu  secluded  part  of  the  mountain. 


844 


C0N8U1L0* 


CHAPTER  LIIL 

The  fear  of  betraying  her  emotion,  a secret  so  long  hidden  in  thi 
depths  of  her  soul,  restored  Consuelo  to  strength,  and  enabled  her  to 
control  herself,  so  that  Albert  perceived  nothing  extraordinary  in  her 
situation.  Just  as  the  young  Anzoleto  and  his  guide  disappeared 
among  the  distant  pine-trees,  and  Albert  might  therefore  attribute  to 
his  own  presence  the  danger  she  had  incurred  of  falling  down  the 
precipice.  The  idea  of  this  danger,  of  which  he  supposed  himself  to 
be  the  cause  in  terrifying  her  by  his  sudden  approach,  so  distressed 
him,  that  he  did  not  at  first  perceive  Consuelo's  confused  replies. 
Consuelo,  in  whom  he  still  inspired  a sort  of  superstitious  terror, 
feared  that  he  might  divine  the  mystery.  But  Albert,  since  love  had 
made  him  live  the  life  of  other  men,  seemed  to  have  lost  the  appar- 
ently supernatural  faculties  which  he  had  formerly  possessed.  She 
soon  conquered  her  agitation,  and  Albert’s  proposal  to  conduct  her  to 
his  hermitage,  did  not  displease  her  at  this  moment,  as  it  would  have 
done  a few  hours  previously.  It  seemed  as  if  the  grave  and  serious 
character  and  gloomy  abode  of  this  man,  who  regarded  her  with  such 
devoted  affection,  offered  themselves  as  a refuge  in  which  she  could 
find  strength  to  combat  the  memory  of  her  unhappy  passion.  “ It  is 
Providence,”  thought  she,  “ who  has  sent  me  this  friend  in  the  midst 
of  my  trials,  and  the  dark  sanctuary  to  which  he  would  lead  me,  is  an 
emblem  of  the  tomb  in  which  I should  wish  to  be  buried,  rather  than 
pursue  the  track  of  the  evil  genius  who  has  just  passed  me.  Oh,  yes, 
my  God ! rather  than  follow  his  footsteps,  let  the  earth  open  to  re- 
ceive me,  and  snatch  me  forever  from  the  living  world ! ” 

“ Dear  Consolation,”  said  Albert,  “ I came  to  tell  you  that  my  aunt, 
having  to  examine  her  accounts  this  morning,  is  not  thinking  of  us, 
and  we  are  at  length  at  liberty  to  accomplish  our  pilgrimage.  Never- 
theless, if  you  still  feel  any  repugnance  to  revisit  places  which  recall 
so  much  suffering  and  terror ” 

“ No,  my  friend,”  replied  Consuelo : “ on  the  contrary,  I have  never 
felt  better  disposed  to  worship  with  you,  and  to  soar  aloft  together  on 
the  wings  of  that  sacred  song  which  you  promised  to  let  me  hear.” 

They  took  the  way  together  towards  the  Schrekenstein,and  as  they 
buried  themselves  in  the  wood  in  an  opposite  direction  to  that  taken 
by  Anzoleto,  Consuelo  felt  more  at  ease,  as  if  each  step  tended  to 
weaken  the  charm  of  which  she  felt  the  force.  She  walked  on  bo 
eagerly,  that  although  grave  and  reserved,  Count  Albert  might  have 
ascribed  her  anxiety  to  a desire  to  please,  if  he  had  not  felt  that  dis- 
trust of  himself  and  of  his  destiny,  which  formed  the  principal  feature 
of  his  character. 

He  conducted  her  to  the  foot  of  the  Schreckenstein,  and  stopped  at 
the  entrance  of  a grotto  filled  with  stagnant  water,  and  nearly  hidden 
by  the  luxuriant  vegetation.  “ This  grotto,  m which  you  may  remark 
some  traces  of  a vaulted  construction*”  said  he,  “ is  called  in  the 
country  ‘ The  Monk’s  Cave.’  Some  think  it  was  a cellar  of  a con- 
vent, at  a period  when,  in  place  of  these  ruins,  there  stood  here  a for- 
tified town ; others  relate  that  it  was  subsequently  the  retreat  of  a 
repentant  criminal,  who  turned  hermit.  However  this  may  bo,  no 
one  dares  to  penetrate  the  recesses;  and  every  one  says  that  th« 
water  is  deep,  and  is  imbued  with  a mortal  poison,  owing  to  the  veins 


60X017*1  a. 


245 

Of  copper  through  which  It  runs  in  Us  passage.  But  this  water  Is 
really  neither  deep  nor  dangerous;  it  sleeps  upon  a bed  of  rocks, 
and  we  can  easily  cross  it,  Consuelo,  If  you  will  once  again  confide 
In  the  strength  of  my  arm  and  the  purity  of  my  love.” 

Thus  saying,  after  having  satisfied  himself  that  no  one  had  followed 
cr  observed  them,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  entering  the  water, 
which  reached  almost  to  his  knee,  he  cleared  a passage  through  the 
shrubs  and  matted  ivy,  which  con  sealed  the  bottom  of  the  grotto.  In 
a very  short  time  he  set  her  down  upon  a bank  of  fine  dry  sand,  in  a 
place  completely  dark.  He  immediately  lighted  the  lantern  with  which 
he  was  furnished,  and  after  some  turns  in  subterranean  galleries,  sim- 
ilar to  those  which  Consuelo  had  already  traversed,  they  found  them- 
selves at  the  door  of  a cell,  opposite  to  that  which  she  had  opened 
the  first  time. 

“ This  subterranean  building,”  said  he,  “ was  originally  destined  to 
serve  as  a place  of  refuge  in  time  of  war,  either  for  the  principal  in- 
habitants of  the  town,  which  covered  the  hill,  or  for  the  lords  of  the 
Castle  of  the  Giants,  to  whom  this  town  belonged,  who  could  enter  it 
secretly  by  the  passages  with  which  you  are  already  acquainted.  If  a 
hermit,  as  they  assert,  since  inhabited  the  Monk’s  Cave,  it  is  probable 
that  he  was  aware  of  this  retreat ; because  the  gallery  which  we  hove 
just  traversed,  has  been  recently  cleared  out,  whilst  I have  found 
those  leading  from  the  castle,  so  filled  up  in  many  places  with  earth 
and  gravel,  that  I found  difficulty  in  removing  them.  Besides,  the 
relics  I discovered  here,  the  remnants  of  matting,  the  pitcher,  the 
crucifix,  the  lamp,  and  above  all  the  skeleton  of  a man  lying  on  his 
back,  his  hands  crossed  on  his  breast,  as  if. in  a last  prayer  at  the  hour 
of  his  final  sleep,  proved  to  me  that  a hermit  had  here  piously  and 
peaceably  ended  his  mysterious  existence.  Our  peasants  still  believe 
that  the  hermit’s  spirit  inhabits  the  depths  of  the  mountain.  They 
affirm  that  they  have  often  seen  him  wander  around  it,  or  flit  to  the 
heights  by  the  light- of  the  moon ; that  they  have  heard  him  pray,  sigh, 
sob,  and  that  even  a strange,  incomprehensible  music  has  been  wafted 
towards  them,  like  a suppressed  sigh,  on  the  wings  of  the  breeze. 
Even  I myself,  Consuelo,  when  despair  peopled  nature  around  me 
with  phantoms  and  prodigies,  have  thought  I saw  the  gloomy  peni- 
tant  prostrate  under  the  Hussite.  I have  fancied  that  I heara  his 
plaintive  sobs  and  heart-rending  sighs  ascend  from  the  depths  of  the 
abyss.  But  since  I discovered  and  inhabited  this  cell,  I have  never 
Been  any  hermit  but  myself— any  spectre  but  my  own  figure — nor 
have  I heard  any  sobs  save  those  which  issued  from  my  own  breast.” 

Since  Consuelo’s  first  interview  with  Albert  in  the  cavern,  she  had 
never  heard  him  utter  an  irrational  word.  She  did  not  venture, 
therefore,  to  allude  to  the  manner  in  which  he  had  addressed  herself, 
nor  to  the  illusions  in  the  midst  of  which  she  had  surprised  him. 
But  she  was  astonished  to  observe  that  thev  seemed  absolutely  for- 
gotten, and  not  wishing  to  recal  them,  she  merely  asked  if  solitude 
had  really  delivered  him  from  the  disquietude  o*  which  he  spoke. 

“ I cannot  tell  you  precisely,”  he  replied ; “ and  at  least  not  till  you 
exact  it,  can  I urge  my  memory  to  the  task.  I roust  have  been  mad, 
and  the  efforts  I made  to  conceal  it,  betrayed  it  yet  more.  When, 
thanks  to  one  whom  tradition  had  handed  down  the  secret  of  these 
caverns,  I succeeded  in  escaping  from  the  solicitude  o**  my  relatives, 
and  hiding  my  despair,  my  existence  changed.  I recovered  a sort  of 
•mpire  over  myself, and  secure  of  concealment  from  troublesome  wit* 


246 


CONSUELO. 


newes,  l was  abac  at  length  to  appear  tranquil  and  resigned  in  tha 
hotom  of  my  family.” 

Consuelo  perceived  that  poor  Albert  was  under  an  illusion  in  some 
respects,  but  this  was  not  the  time  to  enlighten  him;  and,  pleaded  to 
hear  him  speak  of  the  past  with  such  unconcern,  she  began  to  exam- 
ine the  cell  with  more  attention  than  she  had  bestowed  on  it  the  first 
time.  There  was  no  appearance  of  the  care  and  neatness  which  she 
formerly  observed.  The  dampness  of  the  walls,  the  cold  of  the  at- 
mosphere, and  the  mouldiness  of  the  books,  betrayed  complete  aban- 
donment “ You  see  that  I have  kept  my  word,”  said  Albert,  who 
had  just  succeeded  with  great  difficulty  in  lighting  the  stove.  “ I have 
never  set  foot  here  since  the  day  you  displayed  your  power  over  me 
by  tearing  me  away.” 

Consuelo  had  a question  on  her  lips,  but  restrained  herself.  She 
was  about  to  ask  if  Zdenko,  the  friend,  the  faithful  servant,  the  zeal- 
ous guardian,  had  also  abandoned  and  neglected  the  hermitage.  But 
she  recollected  the  profound  sorrow  which  Albert  always  displayed 
when  she  hazarded  a question  as  to  what  had  become  of  him,  and 
why  she  had  never  seen  him  since  the  terrible  encounter  in  the  cav- 
ern ? Albert  had  always  evaded  these  questions,  either  by  pretending 
not  to  understand  her,  or  by  begging  her  to  fear  nothing  for  the  inno- 
cent She  was  at  first  persuaded  that  Zdenko  had  received  and  faith- 
fully fulfilled  the  command  of  his  master  never  to  appear  before  his 
eyes.  But  when  she  resumed  her  solitary  walks,  Albert,  in  order  to 
completely  reassure  her,  had  sworn,  while  a deadly  paleness  over- 
spread his  countenance,  that  she  should  not  encounter  Zdenko,  who 
had  set  out  on  a long  voyage.  In  fact  no  one  had  seen  him  since  that 
time,  and  they  thought  he  was  dead  in  some  corner,  or  that  he  had 
quitted  the  country. 

Consuelo  believed  neither  of  these  suppositions.  She  knew  too 
well  the  passionate  attachment  of  Zdenko  to  Albert  to  think  a separa- 
tion possible.  As  to  his  death,  she  thought  of  it  with  a terror  she 
hardly  admitted  to  herself,  when  she  recollected  Albert’s  dreadful 
oath  to  sacrifice  the  life  of  this  unhappy  being  if  necessary  to  the  re- 
pose of  her  he  loved.  But  she  rejected  this  frightful  suspicion  on  re- 
calling the  mildness  and  humanity  which  the  whole  of  Albert’s  life 
displayed.  Besides  he  had  enjoyed  perfect  tranquillity  for  many 
months,  and  no  apparent  demonstration  on  the  part  of  Zdenko  had 
reawakened  the  fury  which  the  young  count  had  for  a moment  mani- 
fested. He  had  forgotten  that  unhappy  moment  which  Consuelo  also 
struggled  to  forget ; he  only  remembered  what  took  place  in  the  cav- 
ern whilst  he  was  in  possession  of  his  reason.  Consuelo  therefore 
concluded  that  he  had  forbidden  Zdenko  to  enter  or  approach  the 
castle,  and  that  the  poor  fellow,  through  grief  or  anger,  had  con- 
demned himself  to  voluntary  seclusion  in  the  hermitage.  She  took  it 
for  granted  that  Zdenko  would  come  out  on  the  Schreckenstein  only 
by  night  for  air,  and  to  converse  with  A.bert,  who  no  doubt  took  care 
of,  and  watched  over  him  who  had  for  so  long  a time  taken  care  of 
himself.  On  seeing  the  condition  of  the  cell,  Consuelo  was  driven  to 
the  conclusion  that  he  was  angry  at  his  master,  and  had  displayed  it 
by  neglecting  his  retreat.  But  as  Albert  had  assured  her  when  they 
entered  the  grotto,  that  there  was  contained  in  it  no  cause  of  alarm, 
•he  seized  the  opportunity  when  his  attention  was  otherwise  engaged, 
to  open  the  rusty  gate  of  what  he  called  his  church,  and  in  this  way 
to  reach  Zdenko’s  cell,  where  doubtless  she  would  find  trace*  of  hii 


C0K8UEL0, 


247 


recent  presence. — The  door  yielded  as  soon  as  she  had  turned  toe  key, 
but  the  darkness  was  so  great  that  she  could  see  nothing.  She  waited 
till  Albert  had  passed  into  the  mysterious  oratory  which  he  had  prom- 
ised to  show  her,  and  which  he  was  preparing  for  her  reception,  and 
she  then  took  a light  and  returned  cautiously  to  Zdenko’s  chamber, 
not  without  trembling  at  the  idea  of  finding  him  there  in  person. 
But  there  was  not  the  faintest  evidence  of  his  existence.  The  bed  of 
leaves  and  the  sheepskins  had  been  removed.  The  seat,  the  tools, 
the  sandals  of  undressed  hide— all  had  disappeared,  and  one  would 
have  said,  to  look  at  the  dripping  walls,  that  this  vault  had  never 
sheltered  a living  being. 

A feeling  of  sadness  and  terror  took  possession  of  her  at  this  dis- 
covery. A mystery  shrouded  the  fate  of  this  unfortunate,  and  Con- 
suelo  accused  herself  of  being  perhaps  the  cause  of  a deplorable  event. 
There  were  two  natures  in  Albert:  the  one  wise,  the  other  mad;  the 
one  polished,  tender,  merciful ; the  other  strange,  untamed,  perhaps 
violent  and  implacable.  His  fancied  identity  with  the  far.atic  John 
Ziska,  his  love  for  the  recollections  of  Hussite  Bohemia,  and  that 
mute  and  patient,  but  at  the  same  time  profound  passion  which  he 
nourished  for  herself — all  occurred  at  this  moment  to  her  mind,  and 
seemed  to  confirm  her  most  painful  suspicions.  Motionless  and  froz- 
en with  horror,  she  hardly  ventured  to  glance  at  the  cold  md  naked 
floor  of  the  grotto,  dreading  to  find  on  it  tracks  of  blood. 

She  was  still  plunged  in  these  reflections,  when  she  he  ard  Albert 
tune  his  violin,  and  soon  she  heard  him  playing  on  the  ad  nirable  in- 
strument the  ancient  psalm  which  she  so  much  wished  to  hear  a sec- 
ond time.  The  music  was  so  original,  and  Albert  performed  it  with 
such  sweet  expression,  that,  forgetting  her  distress,  and  at  tracted  and 
as  if  charmed  by  a magnetic  power,  she  gently  approached  the  spot 
where  he  stood. 


CHAPTER  LIY. 

The  door  of  the  church  was  open,  and  Consuelo  stopped  upon  the 
threshold  to  observe  the  inspired  virtuoso  and  the  strange  sanctuary. 
— This  so-called  church  was  nothing  but  an  immense  grotto,  hewn, 
or  rather  cleft  out  of  the  rock  irregularly  by  the  hand  of  nature,  and 
hollowed  out  by  the  subterranean  force  of  the  water.  Scattered 
torches,  placed  on  gigantic  blocks,  shed  a fantastic  light  on  the  green 
sides  of  the  cavern,  and  partially  revealed  dark  recesses  in  the  depths 
of  which  the  huge  forms  of  tall  stalactites  loomed  like  spectres  alter- 
nately seeking  and  shunning  the  light.  The  enormous  sedimentary 
deposits  on  the  sides  of  the  cavern  assumed  a thousand  fantastic 
forms.  Sometimes  they  seemed  devouring  serpents,  rolling  over  and 
interlacing  each  other. ' Sometimes  hanging  from  the  roof  and  shoot- 
ing upwards  from  the  floor  they  wore  the  aspect  of  the  colossal  teeth 
of  some  monster,  of  which  the  dark  cave  beyond  might  pass  for  the 
gaping  jaws.  Elsewhere  they  might  have  been  taken  for  misshapen 
statues,  giant  images  of  the  demi-gods  of  antiquity.  A vegetation 
appropriate  to  the  grotto — huge  lichens,  rough  as  dragon’s  scales ; fes 
toons  of  heavy-leaved  scolopendra,  tufts  of  young  cypresses  recently 
planted  in  the  middle  of  the  enclosure  on  little  heaus  of  artificial  aoUg 


248 


eoHstnsLo. 


aot  unlike  graves— gave  the  place  a terrific  and  sombre  aspect  which 
deeply  impressed  Consuelo.  To  her  first  feeling  of  terror,  admiration 
however  quickly  succeeded.  She  approached  and  saw  Albert  stand- 
ing on  the  margin  of  the  fountain  which  sprung  up  in  the  midst  of 
the  cavern.  This  water,  although  gushing  out  abundantly,  was  en- 
closed in  so  deep  a basin  that  no  movement  was  visible  on  its  surface. 
It  was  calm  and  motionless  as  a block  of  dark  sapphire,  and  the  beau- 
tiful aquatic  plants  with  which  Albert  and  Zdenko  had  clothed  its 
margin,  were  not  agitated  by  the  slightest  motion.  The  spring  was 
warm  at  its  source,  and  the  tepid  exhalations  with  which  it  filled  the 
cavern,  caused  a mild  and  moist  atmosphere  favorable  to  vegetation. 
It  gushed  from  its  fountain  in  many  ramifications,  of  which  some  lost 
themselves  under  the  rocks  with  a dull  noise,  while  others  ran  gently 
Into  limpid  streams  in  the  interior  of  the  grotto  and  disappeared  in 
the  depths  beyond. 

When  Count  Albert,  who  until  then  had  been  only  trying  the 
strings  of  his  violin,  saw  Consuelo  advance  towards  him,  he  came  for- 
ward to  meet  her,  and  assisted  her  to  cross  the  channels,  over  which 
he  had  thrown,  in  the  deepest  spots,  some  trunks  of  trees,  while  in 
other  places  rocks  on  a level  with  the  water,  offered  an  easy  passage 
to  those  habituated  to  it.  He  offered  his  hand  to  assist  her,  and 
sometimes  lifted  her  in  his  arms.  But  this  time  Consuelo  was  afraid, 
not  of  the  torrent  which  flowed  silently  and  darkly  under  her  feet, 
but  of  the  mysterious  guide  towards  whom  she  was  drawn  by  an 
Irresistible  sympathy,  while  an  indefinable  repulsion  at  the  same  time 
held  her  back.  Having  reached  the  bank  she  beheld  a spectacle  not 
much  calculated  to  reassure  her.  It  was  a sort  of  quadrangular  mon- 
ument, formed  of  bones  and  human  skulls,  arranged  as  if  in  a cata- 
comb. 

“ Do  not  be  uneasy,”  said  Albert,  who  felt  her  shudder.  “ These 
are  the  honored  remains  of  the  martyrs  of  my  religion,  and  they 
form  the  altar  before  which  I love  to  meditate  and  pray.” 

“ What  is  your  religion  then,  Albert  ? ” said  Consuelo,  in  a sweet 
and  melancholy  voice.  — “ Are  these  bones  Hussite  or  Catholic  ? 
Were  not  both  the  victims  of  impious  fury,  and  martyrs  of  a faith 
equally  sincere  ? Is  it  true  that  you  prefer  the  Hussite  doctrines  to 
those  of  your  relatives,  and  that  the  reforms  subsequent  to  those  of 
John  Huss,  do  not  appear  to  you  sufficiently  radical  and  decisive? 
Speak,  Albert— what  am  I to  believe  ? ” 

“ If  they  told  you  that  I preferred  the  reform  of  the  Hussites  to 
that  of  the  Lutherans,  and  the  great  Procopius  to  the  vindictive  Cal 
vin,  as  much  as  I prefer  the  exploits  of  the  Taborites  to  those  of  the 
soldiers  of  Wallenstein,  they  have  told  you  the  truth,  Consuelo.  Bu< 
what  signifies  my  creed  to  you,  who  seem  instinctively  aware  of 
truth,  and  who  know  the  Deity  better  than  I do?  God  forbid  that  J 
should  bring  you  here  to  trouble  your  pure  soul  and  peaceful  con- 
science with  my  tormenting  reveries!  Remain  as  you  are,  Consuelo; 
you  were  born  pious  and  good;  moreover,  you  were  born  poor  and 
obscure,  and  nothing  has  changed  in  you  the  pure  dictates  of  reason 
and  the  light  of  justice.  We  can  pray  together  without  disputing — 
you  who  know  everything  although  having  learned  nothing,  and 
who  know  very  little  after  a long  and  tedious  study.  In  whatever 
temple  you  raise  your  voice,  the  knowledge  of  the  true  God  will  be  in 
your  heart,  and  the  feeling  of  the  true  faith  will  kindle  your  soul.  It 
knot  to  instruct  you, but  in  order  that  your  revelation  may  be  in* 


coriuilo.  249 

Mrtid  to  me,  that  I wished  our  voices  and  our  spirits  to  xmtte  before 

this  altar,  formed  of  the  bones  of  my  fathers.” 

u I was  not  mistaken,  then,  in  thinking  that  these  honored  remains, 
as  you  call  them,  are  those  of  Hussites,  thrown  into  the  fountain  of 
the  Schreckenstein  during  the  bloody  fury  of  the  civil  wars,  in  the  time 
of  your  ancestor  John  Ziska,  who,  they  say,  made  fearful  reprisals?  I 
have  been  told  that,  after  burning  the  village,  he  destroyed  the  wells. 
I fancy  I can  discover  in  the  obscurity  of  this  vault,  a circle  of  hewed 
stones  above  my  head,  which  tells  me  that  we  are  precisely  under  a spot 
where  I have  often  sat  when  fatigued  after  searching  for  you  in  vain. 
Say,  Count  Albert,  is  this  really  the  place  that  you  have  baptized  as 
the  Stone  of  Expiation  ? ” 

“ Yes,  it  is  here,”  replied  Albert,  “ that  torments  and  atrocious  vio- 
lence  have  consecrated  the  asylum  of  my  prayers,  and  the  sanctuary 
of  my  grief.  You  see  enormous  blocks  suspended  above  our  heads, 
and  others  scattered  on  the  banks  of  the  stream.  The  just  hands  of 
the  Taborites  flung  them  there  by  the  orders  of  him  whom  they  called 
ihe  Terrible  Blind  Man : but  they  only  served  to  force  back  the  waters 
towards  those  subterranean  beds  in  which  they  succeeded  in  forcing 
a passage.  The  wells  were  destroyed,  and  I have  covered  their  ruins 
with  cypress,  but  it  would  have  needed  a mountain  to  fill  this  cavern. 
The  blocks  which  were  heaped  up  in  the  mouth  of  the  well,  were 
stopped  by  a winding  stair,  similar  to  that  which  you  had  the  courage 
to  descend  in  my  garden  at  the  castle.  Since  that  time,  the  gradual 
pressure  of  the  soil  has  thrust  them  closer  together,  and  confines  them 
better.  If  any  portion  of  the  mass  escapes,  it  is  during  the  winter 
frosts ; you  have  therefore  nothing  to  fear  from  this  Ml.” 

“ It  was  not  that  of  which  I was  thinking,  Albert,”  replied  Consu- 
elo,  looking  towards  the  gloomy  altar  on  which  he  had  placed  his 
Stradivarius.  “ I asked  myself  why  you  render  exclusive  worship  to 
the  memory  of  these  victims,  as  if  there  were  no  martyrs  on  the 
other  side,  and  as  if  the  crimes  of  the  one  were  more  pardonable 
than  those  of  the  other  ? 99 

Consuelo  spoke  thus  in  a severe  tone,  and  looking  distrustfully  at 
Albert,  She  remembered  Zdenko,  and  all  her  questions,  had  she 
dared  so  to  utter  them,  assumed  in  her  mind  a tone  of  interrogation, 
such  as  would  befit  a judge  towards  a criminal. 

The  painful  emotion  which  suddenly  seized  upon  the  count  seemed 
the  confession  of  remorse.  He  passed  his  hands  over  his  forehead, 
then  pressed  them  against  his  breast,  as  if  it  were  being  tom  asun 
der.  His  countenance  changed  in  a frightful  manner,  and  Consuelo 
feared  that  he  might  have  only  too  well  understood  her. 

“ You  do  not  know  what  harm  you  do  me,”  said  he,  leaning  upcn 
the  heap  of  bones,  and  drooping  his  head  toward  the  withered  skulls, 
which  seemed  to  gaze  on  him  from  their  hollow  orbits.  “ No,  you 
cannot  know  it,  Consuelo,  and  your  cold  remarks  recal  the  memory 
of  the  dreary  past.  You  do  not  know  that  you  speak  to  a man  who 
has  lived  through  ages  of  grief,  and  who,  after  being  the  blind  instru- 
ment of  inflexible  justice  in  the  hands  of  G-od,has  received  his  recom- 
pense and  undergone  his  punishment.  I have  so  suffered,  so  wept,  so 
expiated  my  dreary  destiny,  so  atoned  for  the  horrors  to  which  my 
fate  subjected  me,  that  I had  at  last  fla‘  tered  myself  I could  forget 
them.  Forgetfiiness ! — yes,  forg  Btfulness  I — that  was  the  craving 
which  consumed  my  aching  breast ; that  was  my  vow  and  my  daily 
t$*ayer;  that  w*i  the  token  of  my  alliance  with  man  and  my  restm- 


260 


C O N a U E L o. 


dilation  with  God,  which,  during  long  years,  I had  implored,  pro* 
trate  upon  these  mouldering  bones.  When  I first  saw  you,  Consuelo, 
I began  to  hope ; when  you  pitied  me,  I thought  I was  saved.  See 
this  wreath  of  withered  flowers  ready  to  fall  into  the  dust,  and  which 
encircles  the  skull  that  surmounts  the  altar.  You  do  not  recognise  it, 
though  I have  watered  it  with  many  a bitter  yet  soothing  tear.  It  is 
ycu  who  gathered  them,  you  who  sent  them  to  me  by  the  companion 
of  my  sorrows,  the  faithful  guardian  of  this  sepulchre.  Covering 
them  with  kisses  and  tears,  I anxiously  asked  myself  if  you  could 
ever  feel  any  true  and  heartfelt  regard  for  one  like  myself— a pitiless 
fanatic,  an  unfeeling  tyrant — ” 

" But  what  are  the  crimes  you  have  committed  ? ” said  Consuelo, 
firmly,  distracted  with  a thousand  varying  emotions,  and  emboldened 
by  the  deep  dejection  of  Albert.  “ If  you  have  a confession  to  make^ 
make  it  here  to  me,  that  I may  know  if  I can  absolve  and  love  you.” 

“Yes,  you  may  absolve  me;  for  he  whom  you  know,  Albert  of 
Rudolstadt,  has  been  innocent  as  a child ; but  he  whom  you  do  not 
know,  John  Ziska  of  the  Chalice,  has  been  whirled  by  the  wrath  of 
Heaven  into  a career  of  iniquity.” 

Consuelo  saw  the  imprudence  of  which  she  had  been  guilty,  in  rous- 
ing the  slumbering  flame  and  recalling  to  Albert’s  mind  hiis  former 
madness.  This,  however,  was  not  the  moment  to  combat  it,  and  she 
was  revolving  in  her  mind  some  expedient  to  calm  him,  and  had  grad- 
ually sunk  into  a reverie,  when  suddenly  she  perceived  that  Albert  no 
longer  spoke,  no  longer  held  her  hand — that  he  was  not  at  her  side, 
but  standing  a few  paces  off,  before  the  monument,  performing  on  his 
violin  the  singular  airs  with  which  she  had  been  already  so  surprised 
and  charmed. 


CHAPTER  LY. 

Albert  at  first  attuned  his  instrument  to  several  of  those  ancient 
chaunts,  the  authors  of  which  are  either  unknown  to  us,  or  forgotten 
among  the  Bohemians ; but  the  precious  airs  and  melodies  of  which 
Zdenko  had  retained  by  ear,  whence  the  Count  had  discovered  the 
text  by  dint  of  study  and  meditation.  He  had  so  thoroughly  fed  his 
spirit  on  these  compositions,  which  seem  at  a first  hearing  rude  and 
barbaric,  but  which  are  deeply  touching  and  truly  fine  in  the  ear  of 
a serious  and  enlightened  judgment,  that  he  had  so  far  assimilated 
them  to  himself  as  to  have  attained  the  power  of  carrying  out  long 
improvisations  on  the  idea  of  those  themes,  of  mingling  with  them  his 
own  ideas,  of  recovering  and  developing  the  primitive  sentiment  of 
the  compositions,  and  of  abandoning  himself  to  his  own  personal  in- 
spirations, without  allowing  the  original  character,  so  striking  and 
austere,  of  those  ancient  chaunts,  to  be  lost  or  altered  in  his  ingenious 
and  scientific  interpretation  of  them.  Consuelo  had  promised  herself 
that  she  would  hear,  and  collect  these  invaluable  specimens  of  the  ar- 
dent popular  genius  of  old  Bohemia.  But  all  power  of  criticism  soon 
forsook  her,  as  well  on  account  of  the  meditative  humor  in  which  she 
chanced  to  be,  as  in  consequence  of  the  vague  and  rambling  tone 
which  penteded  that  music,  all  unfamiliar  to  her  ear. 

There  Is  a style  of  music  which  may  be  cal  ed  natural,  because  it  is 


C 0 N 3 tJ  E t O. 


251 


aofcthe  offspring  of  science  or  reflection,  but  of  an  inspiration  which 
•ets  at  defiance  aL  the  strictness  of  rules  and  convention.  I mean 
popular  music,  and  especially  that  of  the  peasantry.  How  many  ex- 
quisite compositions  are  born, live  and  die,  among  the  peasantry,  with- 
out ever  having  been  dignified  by  a correct  notation,  without  ever  hav- 
ing deigned  to  be  confined  within  the  absolute  limits  of  a distinct  and 
definite  theme.  The  unknown  artist  who  improvises  his  rustic  ballad 
while  watching  his  flocks,  or  guiding  his  ploughshare,  and  there  are 
such  even  in  countries  which  would  seem  the  least  poetical,  will  ex* 
perience  great  difficulty  in  retaining  and  fixing  his  fugitive  fancies. 
He  communicates  his  ballad  to  other  musicians,  children  like  himself 
of  nature,  and  these  circulate  it  from  hamlet  to  hamlet,  from  cot  to  cot, 
each  modifying  it  according  to  the  bent  of  his  own  individual  genius. 
It  is  hence  that  these  pastoral  songs  and  romances,  so  artlessly  strik- 
ing or  so  deeply  touching,  are  for  the  most  part  lost,  and  rarely  exist 
above  a single  century  in  the  memory  of  their  rustic  composers.  Mu- 
sicians completely  formed  under  the  rules  of  art  rarely  trouble  them 
selves  to  collect  them.  Many  even  disdain  them  from  very  lack  of  an 
intelligence  sufficiently  pure,  and  a taste  sufficiently  elevated  to  admit 
of  their  appreciating  them.  Others  are  dismayed  by  the  difficulties 
which  they  encounter  the  moment  they  endeavor  to  discover  that  trua 
and  original  version,  which,  perhaps,  no  longer  retains  its  existence 
even  in  the  mind  of  its  author,  and  which  certainly  was  never  at  any 
time  recognised  as  a definite  and  invariable  type  by  any  one  of  his  nu- 
merous interpreters. 

Some  of  these  have  altered  it  through  ignorance,  others  have  devel 
oped,  adorned  and  embellished  it,  as  an  effect  of  their  superiority, 
because  the  teachings  of  their  art  have  not  instructed  them  to  repu- 
diate its  natural  and  instinctive  spirit.  They  are  not  themselves 
aware  that  they  have  transformed  the  primitive  composition,  nor  are 
their  artless  auditors  more  conscious  of  it  than  they.  The  peasant 
examines  not  nor  compares.  When  heaven  has  made  him  a musi- 
cian, he  sings  as  the  birds  sing,  especially  as  sings  the  nightingale, 
whose  improvisation  is  everlasting,  although  the  infinitely  varied  ele- 
ments of  its  strain  are  the  same  for  ever.  Moreover,  this  popular 
genius  is  unlimited  in  its  exuberance.*  It  has  no  need  to  commit  its 

°If  you  consider  with  any  attention  the  bagpipe-players  who  perform  the  office 
of  fiddlers  in  the  rural  districts  in  the  centre  of  France,  you.  will  perceive  that 
they  do  not  know  above  two  or  three  hundred  compositions,  all  of  the  same 
style  and  character,  which  are  however  never  borrowed  the  one  from  the  other, 
and  you  will  also  ascertain  that  in  less  than  three  years  this  immense  collection 
is  entirely  renewed.  Not  very  long  ago  I had  the  following  conversation  with  one 
of  these  wandering  musicians: — “You  have  learned  a little  music,  have  you 
not?” — “Certainly — I have  learned  to  play  the  thorough-base-bagpipe,  and  the 
key-bagpij  ♦ ” — “Where  did  you  take  your  lessons?  ” — “ In  the  Bourbonnais,  in 
the  woods.” — “Who  was  your  master?” — “A  native  of  the  woods.” — “Do  you 
know  your  notes  ? ” — “ I belie-e  so.” — “ In  what  key  do  you  play  ? ” — “ What  key  I 
what  dors  that  mean?” — “Boi’t  you  play  in  re?” — “I  don’t  know  what  you  mean 
by  re.” — “What  are  the  namnsof  your  notes?” — “We  call  them  notes.  They 
have  no  particular  names.” — ‘ How  do  you  retain  so  many  different  airs  ? ” — “ By 
ear.” — “By  whom  are  these  airs  composed?” — “By  many  persona,  famous  musi- 
cians of  the  woods.” — “D:  »,ney  compose  many?” — “ They  are  always  composing. 
They  never  cease  from  i.” — “Have  they  any  other  occupation  ?”—“  They  eut 
wood.” — “ Are  \hey  regular  woodcutters  ? ” — “ Almost  all  of  them  are  woodcutters. 
They  say  among  us  that  music  grows  in  the  woods.  It  is  there  we  always  find  it.*' 
— “And  do  you  go  to  the  woods  in  quest  of  it?  ” — “Every  year.  Petty  musicians 
do  not  go  thither ; they  catch  by  ear  whatever  they  hear  on  the  roads  and  repeat  it 
$m  well  as  they  eaa.  But  to  get  *he  true  aces**  one  must  go  and  listen  to  tbs 


§ 0 If  8 tf  ii  L 


959 

product) jns  to  record;  for  it  produces  them  as  It  cnltiratet  theta^ 
without  phasing  for  repose ; and  it  creates  incessantly,  as  nature  cre- 
ates, and  from  which  he  draws  his  inspiration. 

Consuelo’s  heart  abounded  with  all  that  candor,  that  poetic  taste 
and  highly  wrought  sensibility,  which  are  essential  to  the  comprehen- 
sion and  ardent  love  of  popular  music.  In  that  point  she  was  a great 
artiste;  and  the  learned  theories  which  she  had  fathomed  had  de- 
tracted in  nothing  from  her  genius  of  that  freshness  and  sweetness 
which  constitute  the  treasure  of  inspiration  and  the  youth  of  the 
soul.  She  had  often  told  Anzoleto,  without  letting  the  Porpora  know 
it,  that  she  loved  some  of  the  barcarolles  of  the  fishermen  of  the 
Adriatic  better  than  all  the  science  of  Padre  Martini  and  of  Maestro 
Durante . The  boleros  and  canticles  of  her  mother  had  been  to  her 
the  sources  of  her  poetic  life,  whence  she  never  was  wearied  of  draw- 
ing even  to  their  depth  her  beloved  recollections.  What  impression, 
then,  ought  not  the  musical  genius  of  Bohemia  to  have  produced  on 
her,  the  inspiration,  a pastoral  and  warrior,  and  fanatical  people, 
grave  and  gentle  in  the  midst  of  the  most  puissant  elements  of  energy 
and  activity.  Albert  played  this  music  with  a rare  comprehension  of 
the  national  spirit,  and  of  the  energetic  and  pious  sentiment  which 
had  given  it  birth*  He  added  to  it,  in  his  improvisation,  the  deep 
melancholy  and  piercing  regret  which  slavery  had  impressed  on  his 
own  personal  character,  and  on  that  of  his  people;  and  that  mixture 
of  bravery  and  sadness,  of  enthusiasm  and  debasement,  those  hymns 
of  gratitude  blended  with  moans  of  distress,  were  the  most  perfect 
and  deepest  expositions  of  the  feelings  of  unhappy  Bohemia  of  un- 
happy Albert. 

It  has  been  truly  said  that  the  object  of  music  is  the  awakening  of 
emotions.  No  other  art  so  sublimely  can  arouse  human  sentiments 
in  the  inmost  heart  of  man.  No  other  art  can  paint  to  the  eyes  of 
the  soul  the  splendors  of  nature,  the  delights  of  contemplation,  the 
character  of  nations,  the  tumult  of  their  passions,  and  the  languor  of 
their  sufferings,  as  music  can.  Kegret,  hope,  terror,  meditation,  con- 
sternation, enthusiasm,  faith,  doubt,  glory,  tranquillity,  all  these  and 

woodcutters  of  the  Bourbonnais.” — “And  how  do  they  get  it?” — “It  comes  to 
them  while  walking  in  the  woods,  while  returning  to  their  houses  at  night,  while 
reposing  from  their  toils  on  Sunday.” — “And  do  you  compose?” — “A  little,  but 
vory  rarely;  and  what  I do  is  worth  little  or  nothing.  One  must  be  born  in  the 
woods  to  compose,  and  I am  from  the  plains.  There  is  no  one  superior  to  myself 
In  the  accent,  but  as  to  invention,  we  know  nothing  about  it,  and  it  is  better  for 
«s  not  to  attempt  it.” 

I tried  to  get  him  to  explain  what  he  meant  by  the  accent.  He  could  not,  how- 
ever,  make  aoy  hand  of  it.  Perhaps  because  he  understood  it  too  well  himself,  and 
thought  me  incapable  of  understanding.  He  was  young,  grave,  and  dark-complex- 
ioned as  a Calabrian  Pifferaso,  he  Unveiled  from  village  fete  to  village  fete,  playmg 
all  day,  aud  slept  but  once  in  three  nights,  because  he  had  to  travel  from  eighteen 
to  twenty-four  miles  before  sunrise,  in  order  to  arrive  at  his  next  scene  of  opera- 
tions. But  he  seemed  all  the  better  for  it— drank  measures  of  wine  sufficient  to 
fuddle  an,  ox,  and  never  complained,  like  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  Trumpeter,  of  having 
lost  his  wind.  The  more  he  drank,  the  graver  and  the  prouder  he  became.  He 
played  admirably,  and  had  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  his  accent.  We  observed 
that  his  playing  was  a perpetual  modification  of  each  theme.  It  was  impossible  to 
write  a single  one  of  these  theses  without  taking  a notation  for  every  one  of  fifty 
various  versions.  In  this  probably  lay  his  merit  and  his  art.  His  replies  to  my 
questions  gave  me  a clue,  I believe,  to  true  etymology  of  the  word  bourree, 
which  is  the  term  they  give  to  their  provincial  dances.  Bourree  is  the  usual  nami 
for  a fhggok  and  the  woodchoppers  of  the  Bourbonnais  have  given  that  name  to 
their  musical  composition*,  even  as  Master  Adam  gave  that  of  Ootcw*  to  hit 
gatticai  oompos'Uons 


CONSUELO. 


253 


M*e  are  given  to  us  and  taken  from  us  by  music,  at  the  suggestion 
of  her  genius,  and  according  to  the  bent  of  our  own.  Sk  3 even  cre- 
ates the  aspect  of  realities,  and  without  falling  into  the  childish  pur- 
suit of  mere  effects  of  sound,  or  into  a narrow  imitation  of  real 
noises,  she  makes  us  behold,  through  a vaporous  veil,  which  aggran- 
dizes and  renders  divine  all  that  is  seen  through  it,  the  exterior  objects 
whither  she  transports  our  imaginations.  Some  chaunts  will  cause 
the  gigantic  phantoms  of  antique  cathedrals  to  rise  before  our  eyes,  at 
the  same  time  that  they  will  give  us  to  penetrate  into  the  inmost 
thoughts  of  the  people  who  built  them,  and  prostrated  themselves 
within  their  walls  in  order  to  give  utterance  to  their  religious  hymns. 
To  him  who  knows  to  express  powerfully  and  artlessly  the  music  of 
divers  peoples,  and  to  him  who  knows  to  listen  to  it  as  it  should  be 
listened  to,  it  will  not  need  to  encircle  the  world,  to  visit  the  different 
nations,  to  examine  their  monuments,  to  read  their  books,  to  traverse 
their  upland  plains,  their  mountains,  their  gardens,  or  their  deserts. 
A Jewish  chaunty  well  given,  sets  us  in  the  interior  of  the  synagogue, 
and  as  every  true  Scottish  air  contains  all  Scotland,  so  is  all  Spain  to 
be  found  in  a true  Spanish  air.  Thus,  I have  often  been  in  Poland, 
in  Germany,  at  Naples,  in  Ireland,  in  the  Indies,  and  thus  I know 
those  men  and  those  countries  better  than  if  I had  examined  them 
for  so  many  years.  It  required  but  an  instant  to  transport  me  to 
them,  and  to  make  me  live  with  all  that  life  which  gives  them  anima- 
tion. It  was  the  essence  of  that  life  which  I assimilated  to  myself 
under  the  fascination  of  the  music. 

By  degrees  Consuelo  ceased  to  listen,  ceased  even  to  hear  Albert’s 
violin.  Her  whole  soul  was  attentive;  and  her  senses,  closed  up 
against  the  reception  of  direct  impressions,  were  awakened  in  another 
world,  as  if  to  guide  her  very  being  through  unknown  realms,  peo- 
pled with  new  existences.  She  saw  the  spectres  of  the  olden  heroes 
of  Bohemia  moving  to  and  fro  in  a strange  chaos,  at  once  horrible  and 
magnificent;  she  heard  the  funereal  tolling  of  the  convent  bells, 
when  the  dreadful  Taborites  rushed  down  from  the  summits  of  their 
fortified  mountains,  emaciated,  half-naked,  fierce  and  gory.  Then  she 
saw  the  angels  of  death  assembled  among  the  clouds  with  the  sword 
and  the  chalice  in  their  hands.  Suspended  in  serried  bands  above 
the  heads  of  prevaricating  pontiffs,  she  saw  them  pour  out  on  the  ac- 
cursed land  the  cup  of  divine  wrath.  She  fancied  she  could  hear  the 
flapping  of  their  heavy  wings,  and  the  dripping  of  the  blood  of  the 
Redeemer  in  heavy  gouts  behind  them,  extinguishing  the  conflagra- 
tion enkindled  by  their  fury.  At  one  time,  it  was  a night  of  dread 
and  darkness,  through  which  she  could  hear  the  groans  and  the 
death-rattie  of  the  trunks  abandoned  on  the  b.attle-field.  At  another, 
it  was  a scorching  day,  the  heat  of  which  she  dared  not  encounter, 
through  which  she  saw  the  terrible  blind  chief  rush  by  like  the  thun- 
derbolt, in  his  scythed  car,  with  his  open  casque,  his  rusty  corselet, 
and  the  gory  bandage  covering  his  eyeless  sockets.  The  temples  of 
their  own  accord  flew  open  to  his  coming;  the  monks  fled  into  the 
entrails  of  the  earth,  carrying  away  and  concealing  their  treasures 
and  their  relics  in  the  skirts  of  their  garments.  Then  the  conquerors 
brought  forward  emaciated  old  me  i,  beggars,  covered  with  sores  like 
Lazarus;  madmen  ran  up  to  meet  them,  chanting  and  gibbering  like 
Zdenko,  executioners  polluted  with  black  gore;  young  children  with 
pure  hands  and  angelic  faces;  warrior- women  carrying  stacks  of  pikes 
ftad  resinous  torches,  ah  took  their  seats  about  a table ; and  an  angel 


COlCgUELtf. 


464 

radiant  and  beautiful  as  those  whom  Albert  Durer  has  painted  fin  hfii 
composition  of  the  Apocalypse,  offered  to  their  parched  lips  the 
wooden  goblet,  the  chalice  of  pardon,  of  restoration,  a.  id  of  holy 
•quality. 

This  angel  reappeared  in  all  the  visions  which  at  that  time  passed 
before  the  eyes  of  Consuelo.  As  she  looked  at  him  earnestly,  she 
recognised  him  for  Satan,  the  most  beautiful  of  the  immortals  after 
the  Father,  the  saddest  after  the  Saviour,  the  proudest  among  the 
proud.  He  dragged  after  his  steps  the  chains  he  had  broken ; and 
his  bab-wings,  all  soiled  and  drooping,  gave  token  of  the  sufferings 
and  the  captivity  he  had  undergone.  He  smiled  mournfully  upon 
the  crime-polluted  men,  and  pressed  the  little  children  to  his  heart. 

On  a sudden,  it  seemed  to  Consuelo  that  Albert’s  violin  was  speak- 
ing, and  that  it  spoke  with  the  voice  of  Satan.  “ No,”  it  said,  “ my 
brother  Christ  loved  you  not  better  than  I love  you.  It  is  time  that 
you  should  know  me,  and  that  in  lieu  of  calling  me  the  enemy  of  the 
human  race,  you  recover  in  me  the  friend  who  has  aided  you  through 
the  great  struggle.  I am  not  the  demon.  I am  the  archangel  of  le- 
gitimate resolution,  and  the  patron  of  grand  conflicts.  Like  Christ,  I 
am  the  friend  of  the  poor  man,  of  the  weak,  and  of  him  that  is  op- 
pressed. When  he  promised  you  the  sign  of  God  upon  the  earth — 
when  he  announced  to  you  his  return  among  you,  he  meant  to  say 
that,  after  having  undergone  persecution,  you  should  be  recompensed, 
by  conquering  liberty  and  happiness  with  me  and  with  himself.  It  is 
together  that  we  were  to  return,  and  it  is  together  that  we  do  return,  so 
united  one  to  the  other,  that  we  are  no  longer  two,  but  one.  It  is  he, 
the  divine  principle,  the  God  of  the  Spirit,  who  descended  into  the 
darkness  into  which  ignorance  had  cast  you,  and  where  I underwent, 
in  the  flames  of  passion  and  indignation,  the  same  torments  which 
the  Scribes  and  Pharisees  of  all  ages  caused  him  to  endure  upon  his 
cross.  Lo!  I am  here  with  you  forever,  my  children;  for  he  has 
broken  my  chains — he  has  extinguished  my  funeral  pyre — he  has  re- 
conciled me  to  God  and  to  you.  And  henceforth  craft  and  terror  will 
no  longer  be  the  lawful  inheritance  of  the  weak,  but  independence 
and  self-will.  It  is  he — it  is  Jesus,  who  is  the  merciful,  the  tender, 
and  the  just.  I am  just  also,  but  I am  strong,  warlike,  stern,  and 
persistent.  O people ! dost  thou  not  recognize  him  who  hath  spoken  to 
thee  in  the  secrecy  of  thy  heart,  since  thou  didst  first  exist,  and  who 
Ml  all  thy  troubles  hath  consoled  thee,  saying,  ‘Seek  fbr  pleasure. 
Renounce  it  not.  Happiness  is  thy  due — demand  it,  and  thou  shalt 
have  it.  Dost  thou  not  see  on  my  brow  all  thy  sufferings,  and  on  my 
wounded  limbs  the  scars  of  the  fetters  which  thou  hast  borne? 
Drink  of  the  chalice  which  I offer  thee.  Therein  thou  wilt  find  my 
tears,  blended  with  thine  and  with  those  of  Christ-;  thou  wilt  taste 
them  as  burning  and  as  salubrious  as  those  which  he  shed.’ 99 

That  hallucination  filled  the  heart  of  Consuelo  with  grief  and  pity 
blended.  She  fancied  she  could  see  and  hear  the  disinherited  angel 
weeping  and  groaning  beside  her.  She  saw  him  pale  but  beautiful,  \ 
with  his  long  tresses  dishevelled  about  his  thunderstricken  brow 
but  still  proud,  still  gazing  up  to  heaven.  She  admired  him,  while 
she  yet  shuddered  through  the  odd  hab.t  of  fearing  him;  and  yet  she 
loved  him  With  that  pious  and  fraternal  love  which  is  inspired  by 
the  sight  of  puissance  in  suffering.  Jt  seemed  to  her  that  from  xhe 
midst  of  the  Communion  of  the  Bob  ernian  fathers,  it  was  she  that  hs 
Addressed ; that  he  addressed  her  wi  *h  gentle  reproaches  for  her  di* 


256 


consuelo; 

Irat  and  terror;  and  that  he  attracted  her  toward  him  by  a glanca 
of  magnetic  influence,  which  she  had  not  the  power  to  resist.  Fas- 
cinated, without  the  power  to  restrain  herself,  she  arose,  she  darted 
toward  him  with  extended  arms  and  trembling  knees.  Albert  dropped 
his  violin,  which  gave  forth  a plaintive  sovind  as  it  fell,  and  received 
the  girl  in  his  arms,  uttering  a cry  of  surprise  and  delight.  It  was  he 
to  whom  Consuelo  had  been  listening,  and  at  whom  she  had  been 
cooking,  while  she  was  pondering  upon  the  rebellious  angel.  It  was 
his  face,  similar  to  that  which  she  had  conjured  up  to  herself,  which 
had  attracted  and  subjugated  her;  it  was  his  heart  against  which  she 
had  pressed  herself,  saying  in  a stifled  voice — “To  thee  I to  thee, 
angel  of  sorrow!  to  thee,  and  to  thy  God  for  ever.” 

But  scarcely  had  Albert’s  trembling  lips  touched  her  own,  before 
she  felt  a cold  and  thrilling  pain,  chill  by  turns,  and  by  turns  enkindle 
her  breast  and  her  brain.  Awakened  suddenly  from  her  illusion,  she 
experienced  so  violent  a shock  throughout  the  whole  of  her  frame 
that  she  thought  herself  at  the  point  of  death,  and  tearing  herself 
away  from  the  arms  of  the  count  she  fell  against  the  bones  of  the 
altar,  a portion  of  which  gave  way  with  her  weight  with  a horrible 
noise.  As  she  felt  herself  covered  with  these  remnants  of  the  human 
frame,  and  as  she  saw  Albert,  whom  she  had  just  clasped  in  her  arms 
and  rendered  in  some  degree  the  master  of  her  soul  and  of  her  liberty 
in  a moment  of  frenzied  excitement,  she  underwent  a pang  of  terror 
and  anguish  so  horrible  that  she  hid  her  face  in  her  dishevelled  hair 
crying  in  a voice  interrupted  by  sobs,— “ Hence ! Hence  I in  the  name 
of  heaven,  give  me  light  and  air.  Oh,  my  God ! take  me  from  this 
sepulchre  and  restore  me  to  the  light  of  day.” 

Albert  seeing  her  grow  pale  and  toss  her  head,  darted  toward  her, 
and  endeavored  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  in  order  to  carry  her  out  of 
the  cavern ; but  in  her  terror  she  did  not  understand  him,  and  recov- 
ering herself  with  an  effort  from  her  fall,  she  took  flight  toward  the 
further  end  of  the  cavern,  recklessly  and  without  taking  heed  of  any 
obstacles,  or  of  the  sinuous  channels  of  the  stream  which  crossed  and 
recrossed  before  her  footsteps,  and  which  in  several  places  were  very 
dangerous.  “ In  God’s  name,”  Albert  exclaimed  as  she  fled,  “ not 
here— not  this  way — stop!  stop!  death  is  before  your  feet,  wait  natil 
I come  I ” 

But  his  outcries  only  added  to  Consuelo’ s fears.  She  leaped  the 
, rivulet  twice  with  bounds  as  active  as  though  a fawn,  and  without 
the  slightest  knowledge  of  what  she  was  doing.  At  length  she 
struck  her  foot  in  a dark  spot  planted  with  cypress  trees,  against  an 
eminence  of  the  soil,  and  fell  with  her  hands  outstretched  before 
her,  upon  a piece  of  fresh  lately  dug  ground. 

The  slight  shock  altered  the  disposition  of  her  nerves.  A sort  of 
stupefaction  succeeded  to  her  apprehensions,  and  panting,  overpow- 
ered, and  having  no  longer  the  lightest  recollection  of  what  had  affect- 
ed her,  she  let  the  count  overtake  her  and  draw  near  to  her  side.  He 
had  rushed  away  in  pursuit  of  her,  and  had  the  presence  of  .mind  to 
snatch  up  in  haste,  even  as  he  ran  by,  one  of  the  torches  which  were 
3xed  among  the  rocks,  in  order  that  he  might  at  least  have  the  power 
of  giving  her  light  among  the  windings  of  the  rivulet,  in  case  he 
should  not  overtake  her,  until  she  lad  reached  a portion  of  it,  which 
he  knew  to  be  deep,  and  toward  which  she  appeared  to  be  making  her 
way. 

Astonished  and  half  stunned  by  motions  so  sudden  and  so  contrary 


260 


CONIUIIO.  / 

1b  their  effect,  the  young  man  did  not  presume  either  to  addrttt  or  to 
lift  her  from  the  ground.  She  had  seated  herself  on  the  mound  of 
•arth  oyer  which  she  had  stumbled,  and  like  himself  was  too  timid  to 
aay  a word  to  him.  Confused  and  shy,  she  sat  gazing  mechanically  on 
the  ground  through  her  lowered  eyelids  before  the  spot  where  she 
was  seated.  Suddenly  she  observed  that  the  mound  whereon  she  sat 
had  the  shape  and  dimensions  of  a tomb,  and  that  she  was  actually 
seated  on  a grave,  which  had  been  but  recently  filled  up,  and  which 
was  strewn  with  cypress  boughs  scarcely  yet  withered,  and  flowers  not 
quite  faded.  She  started  to  her  feet  in  haste,  and  in  a new  fit  of  ter- 
ror which  she  could  not  subdue,  exclaimed,  “ Oh,  Albert,  whom  have 
you  buried  here  ? ” 

“ I have  buried  here,”  replied  Albert,  unable  to  conceal  an  emotion 
of  anguish,  “ that  which  the  world  contained  the  most  dear  to  me  be- 
fore I made  your  acquaintance.  If  it  was  a sacrilege,  inasmuch  as  I 
committed  it  in  the  idea  that  I was  fulfilling  a sacred  duty,  and  at  a 
moment  when  I was  almost  delirious,  God  will  pardon  me  for  it.  ] 
will  tell  you  in  some  future  time  whose  body  it  is  that  rests  here. 
Bust  at  this  moment  your  feelings  are  too  much  excited  to  bear  the  re- 
cital, and  you  want  to  be  once  more  in  the  open  air.  Come,  Consuelo, 
lot  us  leave  this  spot  in  which,  within  a single  moment,  you  have 
made  me  the  happiest  and  the  most  unhappy  of  men.” 

“ Oh  yes,”  she  replied,  “ let  us  go  hence.  I know  not  what  exhala- 
tions arise  here  from  the  bosom  of  the  ground,  but  I feel  that  I am 
dying  of  them,  and  that  my  reason  is  forsaking  me.” 

They  issued  forth  together,  without  exchanging  a word  farther. 
Albert  walked  in  front,  stopping  and  lowering  his  torch  at  every  stone 
they  encountered,  in  order  that  his  companion  might  see  and  avoid  it. 
But  when  he  was  about  to  open  the  door  of  the  cell  a recollection  far 
removed,  as  it  would  seem,  from  the  bent  of  her  mind  at  that  moment, 
but  which  was  connected  with  her  artistical  propensities,  was  awak- 
ened in  the  mind  of  Consuelo.  i 
“ Albert,”  said  she,  “ you  have  forgotten  your  violin,  near  the  spring. 
That  wonderful  instrument,  which  aroused  in  me  emotions  of  which 
until  this  day  I have  been  ignorant,  shall  never  with  my  consent  be 
delivered  up  to  certain  destruction  in  that  humid  place.” 

Albert  made  a gesture  which  was  intended  to  convey  to  her  that 
there  was  now  nothing  on  earth  with  the  exception  of  herself  which 
was  of  any  value  in  his  eyes.  But  she  persisted,  saying,  “It  has 

caused  me  much  pain,  and  yet ” 

“ If  it  has  only  given  you  pain,”  he  replied  bitterly,  “ let  it  perish. 
I will  never  touch  it  again  while  I* live.  Oh!  I care  not  how  soon  it 
Is  ruined.” 

“ I should  speak  falsely  were  I to  say  so,”  answered  Consuelo,  recov- 
ering her  feelings  of  respect  toward  the  musical  genius  of  the  count. 
“ The  emotion  was  greater  than  I could  bear,  and  enchantment  was 
turned  to  agony.  Go,  my  friend,  bring  it  thence.  I will  replace  It 
with  my  own  hands  in  its  casket,  until  I recover  courage  to  bring  it 
forth,  replace  it  in  your  hands,  and  listen  to  it  once  again.” 

Consuelo  was  touched  by  the  expression  of  gratitude  which  the 
count’s  features  assumed  as  he  received  that  permission  to  hope.  He 
returned  into  the  cavern  in  order  to  obey  her,  and  thus  left  to  herself 
for  a few  minutes,  she  began  to  reproach  herself  with  her  weak  terror! 
wad  her  groundless  though  horrible  suspicions.  She  reoollected  treat' 
bdng  and  blushing  as  it  recurred  to  her,  how  in  that  fit  of  foTtrUh 


e O K B tJ  E L O. 


26? 


delirium  she  had  cast  herself  into  his  arms ; but  she  could  not  help 

admiring  the  modest  and  chaste  timidity  of  that  man  who  adored  her, 
and  who  yet  had  not  availed  himself  of  that  opportunity  to  address 
her  with  a single  word  of  love.  The  sorrow  which  she  observed  in  all 
his  features,  the  languid  and  disheartened  demeanor  which  he  bore, 
jdd  her  that  he  had  conceived  no  presumptuous  hope  either  for  the 

E resent  or  the  future.  She  gave  him  credit  for  so  much  delicacy  of 
eart,  and  determined  to  soften  by  kinder  words  than  she  had  yet  used, 
the  bitterness  of  the  farewell  which  she  was  about  to  take  of  him  on 
their  leaving  the  cavern. 

But  the  recollection  of  Zdenko  seemed  to  pursue  like  a vengeful 
phantom  to  the  very  last,  and  to  accuse  Albert  in  spite  even  of 
herself. 

As  she  drew  near  to  the  door  her  eyes  fell  on  an  inscription  in  Bo- 
hemian, the  whole  of  which  with  the  exception  of  a single  word,  she 
easily  understood,  inasmuch  as  she  knew  it  by  heart.  A hand,  which 
could  be  no  other  than  that  of  Zdenko,  had  traced  on  the  black  and 
gloomy  portals  these  words  in  chalk  — “ May  He  who  has  been 
wronged  grant  thee — ” 

What  followed  was  incomprehensible  to  Consuelo,  and  that  circum- 
stance caused  her  acute  uneasiness.  Albert  returned  and  replaced 
his  violin  in  the  case,  without  her  having  the  power  to  assist  him  as 
she  had  promised  to  do.  She  again  felt  all  the  impatience  to  quit  the 
cavern  which  she  had  experienced  at  first  When  he  turned  the  key  in 
the  rusty  lock,  she  could  not  refrain  from  laying  her  finger  on  the 
mysterious  word,  and  turning  a glance  of  interrogation  upon  him. 

“ That  signifies,”  replied  Albert,  answering  her  look  with  a sort  of 
strange  calmness,  “ May  the  Angel,  who  has  ever  been  misunderstood, 
the  friend  of  the  unhappy,  he,  Consuelo,  of  whom  we  spoke  but  now.” 
“ Yes,  Satan,  I know  that;  and  the  rest — ? ” 

“ May  Satan,  I say,  grant  thee  pardon  I ” 
u Pardon  for  what  ? ” she  asked,  turning  pale  as  she  spoke, 

“If  suffering  deserves  pardon,”  answered  the  count  with  melan- 
choly calmness,  “ I have  a long  prayer  to  offer  ” 

They  entered  the  gallery,  and  did  not  again  break  silence  until  they 
had  reached  the  people’s  cavern.  But  when  tlie  light  of  day  from 
without  began  to  fall  with  its  bluish  tints  on  the  face  of  the  count, 
Consuelo  saw  that  two  streams  of  tears  were  flowing  silently  down 
his  cheeks.  She  was  deeply  affected,  and  when  he  drew  nigh  with  a 
timid  air  to  carry  her  across  the  outlet  of  the  stream,  she  preferred 
wetting  her  feet  in  that  brackish  water  to  allowing  him  to  lift  her  in 
his  arms.  She  excused  herself  on  the  ground  of  the  languor  and  we^ 
riness  which  he  seemed  to  experience,  and  was  already  on  the  point 
of  dipping  her  slipper  in  the  mud  when  Albert  said,  extinguishing  the 
torch  as  he  spoke — • 

“ Fare  you  well,  then,  Consuelo.  I see  by  the  aversion  you  mani- 
fest toward  me  that  I must  return  into  everlasting  night ; and  like  a 
ghost,  evoked  by  you  for  one  brief  moment,  return  to  my  tomb,  har- 
ing succeeded  in  terrifying  you  only.” 

“ Your  life  belongs  to  me,”  cried  Consuelo,  turning  round  and 
staying  him.  “ You  swore  to  me  that  you  would  never  re-enter  that 
cavern  except  in  my  companv,  and  you  have  no  right  to  take  back 
your  oath.” 

“ And  wherefore  would  you  impose  the  burthen  of  human  life  on 
fa*  mere  phantom  of  a man.  He  who  is  alone  but  the  shadow  of  a 


169 


CONSUEIO. 


■ortal,  ai  d he  who  is  loved  of  none,  is  alone  everywhere,  ana  with 
all  mem.” 

u Albert,  Albert,  you  rend  my  heart.  Come,  carry  me  forth.  . 
fancy, ^ that  in  the  full  light  of  day,  I shall  clearly  perceive  my  own 


CHAPTER  LVL 

Albert  obeyed  her;  and  when  they  had  begun  to  make  their  way 
downward  from  the  base  of  the  Schreckenstein  into  the  lower  vallies, 
Consuelo  Indeed  felt  that  the  agitation  she  had  experienced  was  pass- 
ing away.  u Pardon  me ; ” she  said,  “ pardon  me  for  the  pain  I have 
given  you;”  as  she  leaned  gently  on  his  arm  and  walked  forward. 
“ It  is  very  certain  I myself  was  attacked  by  a fit  of  frenzy  in  the 
cavern.” 

“ Why  recall  it  to  your  mind,  Consuelo  ? I should  never  have 
spoken  of  it,  not  I.  I well  know  that  you  would  fain  efface  it  from 
your  memory.  I must  also  endeavor  to  forget  it.” 

“ My  friend,  I do  not  desire  to  forget  it,  but  to  ask  your  pardon  for 
it.  If  I were  to  tell  you  the  strange  vision  which  came  over  me  as  I 
listened  to  your  Bohemian  airs,  you  would  see  that  I was  indeed  out 
of  my  senses  when  I gave  you  such  a shock  of  surprise  and  alarm. 
You.  cannot  believe  that  I wished  to  disturb  vour  reason  and  your 
peace  of  mind  for  any  pleasure.  Oh,  God ! Heaven  is  my  witness, 
that  even  now  I would  gladly  give  my  life  for  you.” 

“ I know  that  you  place  no  inestimable  value  on  life,  Consuelo. 
And  I know  that  I should  cling  to  life  with  the  utmost  avidity,  if—* 

“ If— what  ? Proceed.” 

“ If  I were  loved,  as  I love.” 

* Albert,  I love  you  as  much  as  it  is  permitted  me  to  love.  1 

should  love  you,  doubtless,  as  you  deserve  to  be  loved,  if ” 

“ If— what?  It  is  your  turn  now  to  proceed.” 

“ If  insurmountable  obstacles  did  not  render  it  a crime  in  me  to  dc 

so.” 

“ And  what  are  these  obstacles  ? I seek  for  them  in  vain  as  they 
exist  around  you.  I can  find  them  only  in  the  recesses  of  your  own 
heart  — in  your  recollections— where  they  doubtless  have  a real 
being.” 

“ Speak  not  of  my  recollections.  They  are  detestable  to  me ; and 
far  rather  would  I die  than  live  again  the  years  that  are  passed  by. 
But  your  rank  in  the  world,  your  fortune,  the  opposition  and  indigna- 
tion of  your  parents, — where  do  you  suppose  I can  find  courage  to 
face  all  that?  I possess  nothing  in  the  world  but  my  pride  and  my 
disinterestedness;  and  what  would  remain  to  me,  were  I to  sacrifice 
these  ? ” 

“ My  love  would  remain  to  you,  and  your  own  also,  if  you  loved  me 
I feel  that  this  is  not  so ; and  I will  but  ask  of  you  a little  pity.  How 
can  it  be  that  you  should  feel  humiliated  by  granting  ine  a littie  hap- 
piness as  it  were  an  alms  ? Which  of  us  is  it  that  would  so  fall  pros- 
trate before  the  knees  of  the  other?  In  what  respect  should  my  for- 
tune degrade  you?  Could  we  not  speedily  distribute  it  among  tb« 
poor,  Vf  it  should  f*:ove  as  wearisome  to  you  as  it  doe*  to  mt?  Dm 


CONSUfiLO. 


259 


JOB  not  believe  that  I have  long  since  resolved  to  erapioy  it,  as  It 
should  seem  good  to  my  tastes,  or  my  ideas  of  right ; in  other  words, 
to  rid  myself  of  it,  as  soon  as  the  death  of  my  father  shall  add  the 
pain  of  inheriting  wealth  to  the  pain  of  separation?  What  then? 
Do  you  fear  to  be  rich  ? Lo ! I have  vowed  myself  to  poverty.  Do 
you  fear  to  be  ennobled  by  my  name?  My  name  is  an  assumed  one, 
and  my  true  name  is  proscribed.  I will  never  re-assume  it.  To  do  so 
would  be  to  injure  the  memory  of  my  father.  But  in  the  obscurity  in 
which  I shall  bury  myself,  no  one  shall  be  dazzled  by  it,  I swear  to 
you ; and  you  will  not  have  the  power  to  reproach  me  with  it.  To 
conclude.  As  to  the  opposition  of  my  parents — oh ! if  there  were  no 
obstacle  but  that — only  tell  me  that  there  is  no  other,  and  you  shall 
see  the  result.” 

u It  is  the  greatest  of  them  all — the  only  one  which  all  my  devotion, 
all  my  gratitude  to  you,  would  not  allow  me  to  conquer.” 

“ You  are  deceiving  me,  Consuelo.  Swear  that  this  is  the  only  ob- 
stacle— you  dare  not  swear  that  you  are  not  deceiving  me.” 

Consuelo  hesitated.  She  had  never  told  a falsehood ; and  yet  she 
now  desired  to  make  reparation  to  her  friend  for  the  pain  she  had  given 
him — him  who  had  saved  her  life,  and  watched  over  her  during  sev- 
eral months  with  all  the  anxiety  of  a tender  and  intelligent  mother. 
She  flattered  herself  that  she  was  taking  away  the  sting  of  her  refusal 
by  framing  obstacles,  which  she  did,  in  truth,  believe  to  be  insurmount- 
able. But  Albert’s  reiterated  questions  confused  her,  and  her  own 
heart  was  a labyrinth,  in  the  mazes  of  which  she  actually  lost  her  way; 
for  she  could  not  say  with  certainty  whether  she  loved  or  hated  this 
strange  man,  toward  whom  a potent  and  mysterious  sympathy  had  im- 
pelled her,  while  an  invincible  apprehension,  and  something  that  close- 
ly resembled  aversion,  made  her  tremble  even  now  at  the  idea  of  an 
engagement. 

It  seemed  to  her,  at  that  moment,  that  she  actually  hated  Anzoleto. 
Could  it  be  otherwise,  when  she  compared  him  with  his  brutal  selfish- 
ness, his  abject  ambition,  his  cowardice,  and  his  perfidy ; with  this  Al- 
bert, so  generous,  so  humane,  so  pure,  and  so  greatly  endowed  with  all 
the  loftiest  and  most  romantic  virtues  ? The  only  cloud  which  could 
overshadow  her  judgment  concerning  this  parallel,  was  the  attempt 
on  the  life  of  Zdenko,  with  which  she  could  not  help  charging  him. 
And  yet  was  not  this  V3ry  suspicion  a disease  of  her  imagination,  a moral 
n ghtmare  which  the  explanation  of  a moment  might  suffice  to  set  at « 
rest?  She  resolved  to  make  the  experiment,  and  pretending  to  be  ab- 
sent and  not  to  have  understood  Albert’s  last  question,  “ My  God ! * 
she  cried,  as  she  stopped  to  gaze  at  a peasant  who  was  passing  by  at 
some  distance,  “ I thought  I saw  Zdenko.” 

Albert  shuddered,  dropped  Consuelo’s  arm,  which  he  had  been  hold- 
ing, and  advanced  a few  paces;  then  he  stopped  abruptly  and  turned 
oack.  “ How  strange  an  error  is  this,  Consuelo  ? — That  man  has  not 
a single  feature  of  resemblance  to- — ” he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
utter  the  name  of  Zdenko,  and  his  face  was  entirely  changed  as  he 
spoke. 

“You  nevertheless  thought  it  was  he  yourself,  an  instant  ago,” 
said  Consuelo,  who  was  watching  him  keenly. 

“ I am  extremely  short-sighted,  and  I ought  to  have  remembered 
that  such  a meeting  were  impossible.” 

“ Impossible ! Is  Zdenko,  then,  very  far  distant  hence  ? ” 

“ Sufficiently  distant,  that  you  have  no  more  need  to  dread  hit  m*d- 
ftCOft 


aOHSUBL®. 


860 

u Can  yon  cot  explain  to  me  the  origin  of  his  sudden  hatred  to  flMfc 
after  the  evidences  of  sympathy  which  he  gave  me  at  first  ?f 

* I told  you  that  it  is  the  consequence  of  a dream  that  he  had  on 
the  eve  of  your  descent  into  the  cavern,  lie  saw  you  in  his  dream 
following  me  to  the  altar,  at  which  you  consented,  as  he  imagined,  to 
plight  me  your  faith,  and  there  you  began  to  sing  our  old  Bohemian 
hymns  in  a voice  so  powerful  that  it  made  the  whole  church  tremble. 
Then  while  you  were  singing,  he  saw  me  turn  pale,  and  sink  through 
the  paven&mt  of  the  church,  until  I was  wholly  swallowed  up,  and 
lay  dead  in  the  sepulchre  of  my  ancestors.  Then  he  saw  you  hastily 
throw  off  your  bridal  wreath,  push  a flagstone  with  your  foot  so  that 
it  instantly  covered  me,  and  then  dance  upon  that  funereal  slab, 
singing  incomprehensible  words  in  an  unknown  tongue,  with  all  the 
symptoms  of  the  most  immoderate  and  cruel  joy.  Full  of  frenzy,  he 
threw  himself  upon  you,  but  you  had  already  vanished  away  in 
smoke,  and  he  awoke  bathed  in  sweat  and  frantic  with  passion.  He 
even  awoke  me,  for  his  cries  and  imprecations  made  the  whole  vault 
of  the  cell  ring  and  re-echo.  I had  much  trouble  in  inducing  him  to 
relate  his  dream  to  me,  and  yet  greater  difficulty  in  preventing  him 
from  believing  that  he  could  perceive  in  it  the  real  course  of  my  fu- 
ture destiny.  It  was  by  no  means  an  easy  task  to  convince  him ; for  I 
was  myself  under  the  influence  of  a sort  of  sickly  excitement  of  my 
spirits,  and  I had  never  before  attempted  to  dissuade  him  from  repos- 
ing faith  in  his  dreams  and  visions.  Nevertheless,  I thought  that  I 
had  succeeded ; for  during  the  day  which  followed  that  wild  and  per- 
turbed night,  he  seemed  to  retain  no  recollection  of  it,  for  he  made 
no  allusion  to  it ; and  when  I requested  him  to  go  and  speak  with  you 
of  me,  he  made  no  objection.  He  thought  you  had  never  even  en- 
tertained an  idea  of  coming  to  seek  me  where  I then  was,  and  that 
there  was  no  possibility  of  doing  so,  nor  did  his  delirium  break  forth 
again  until  he  saw  you  undertake  it.  At  least  he  did  not  allow  me  to 
discover  his  hatred  toward  you  until  he  met  us  together  on  our  return 
through  the  subterranean  galleries.  Then  he  told  me  laconically,  in 
the  Bohemian  language,  his  intention  and  firm  determination  to  de- 
liver me  from  you — for  it  is  so  that  he  expressed  himself— and  to  de- 
stroy you  the  first  time  he  should  meet  you  alone ; because  you  were 
the  scourge  of  my  life,  and  because  he  could  read  my  death  written 
in  your  eyes.  Pardon  me  for  repeating  these  last  outpourings  of  his 
madness,  and  understand  now  wherefore  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  re- 
move him,  both  from  you  and  myself.  Let  us  speak  of  this  no  more, 
I implore  you;  it  is  too  painful  a subject  of  conversation.  I loved 
Zdenko  as  a second  self.  His  madness  had  assimilated  itself  and 
identified  itself  with  my  own,  to  such  a degree  that  our  thoughts,  our 
visions,  nay,  but  even  our  own  physical  sufferings  had  become  spon- 
taneously the  same.  He  was,  moreover,  simpler  and  more  artless,  and 
by  so  much  more  a poet  than  myself;  his  temperament  was  more 
equable,  and  the  visions  which  I beheld  hideous  and  menacing,  became 
gentle  and  mournful,  as  apprehended  by  the  organization  of  his  mind, 
tenderer,  and  more  serene  than  mine.  The  great  difference  between 
us  was  the  irregular  occurrence  of  my  seizures,  and  the  continuous 
character  of  his  frenzy.  While  I was  at  one  time  a prey  to  fierce  de- 
lirium, or  a cold  and  astounded  spectator  of  my  own  misery,  he  lived 
In  a sort  of  continual  dream,  during  which  ali  external  objects 
assumed  a symbolical  form,  and  this  species  of  hallucination  was 
always  so  gentle  an'*  affectionate,  that  in  my  lucid  intervals — which 


eOKBUILfe 


201 

vm  of  a surety  the  most  painful  hours  of  my  life— I felt  an  actual 
aeed  of  the  peaceful  and  ingenuous  aberrations  of  Zdenko  to  reani- 
mate me  and  reconcile  me  to  life.” 

* Ob,  my  friend,”  said  Consuelo,  “ you  ought  to  hate  me,  and  I 
hate  myself  for  having  deprived  you  of  a friend  so  dear  and  so  devo- 
ted. But  has  not  his  exile  lasted  long  enough  ? By  this  time  may 
he  not  be  cured  of  a mere  passing  fit  of  violence,  which — ” 

" He  is  cured  of  it  probably ,”  interrupted  Albert,  with  a strange 
and  bitter  smile. 

“ Well  then,”  continued  Consuelo,  who  was  anxious  to  divest  hereelf 
of  the  idea  of  his  death,  “ Why  do  you  not  recall  him?  I assure  you, 
I shall  see  him  again  without  any  apprehension,  and  together  we  shall 
easily  bring  him  to  lay  aside  his  prejudices  against  me.” 

“ Do  not  talk  thus,  Consuelo,”  said  Albert,  dejectedly.  u His  return 
is  henceforth  impossible.  I have  sacrificed  my  best  friend,  him  who 
was  my  companion,  my  attendant,  my  support,  my  artless,  ignorant, 
and  obedient  child,  my  solicitous  and  laborious  mother,  the  purveyor 
of  all  my  wants,  of  all  my  innocent  and  melancholy  pleasures — him 
who  defended  me  against  myself  during  my  fits  of  despair,  and  who 
employed  both  strength  and  stratagem  to  prevent  me  from  quitting 
my  cell,  when  he  saw  me  incapable  of  maintaining  my  own  dignity, 
and  my  own  course  of  life  in  the  world  of  the  living,  and  in  the  soci- 
ety of  other  men.  I made  that  sacrifice  without  retrospect  and  with- 
out remorse,  because  it  was  my  duty  so  to  do.  Because  in  encounter- 
ing the  perils  of  the  cavern,  in  restoring  to  my  reason  and  the  percep- 
tion of  my  duties,  you  were  become  more  precious,  more  sacred  to  me 
than  Zdenko  himself.” 

“ This  is  an  error — this  is  almost  a blasphemy,  Albert ! The  cour- 
age of  one  moment  must  not  be  compared  with  the  devotion  of  a 
life.” 

“ Do  not  imagine  that  a selfish  and  savage  passion  prevailed  with 
me  to  act  as  I have  acted.  I should  have  well  known  how  to  stifle 
such  a passion  in  my  own  breast,  and  to  have  locked  myself  up  in  my 
cavern  with  Zdenko,  rather  than  break  the  heart  and  destroy  the  life 
of  the  best  of  men.  But  the  voice  of  God  had  spoken  to  me  distinct- 
ly. I had  resisted  the  fascination  which  was  overpowering  me.  I 
had  avoided  you;  I had  determined  to  abstain  from  seeing  you,  so 
long  as  the  dreams  and  presentiments,  which  led  me  to  hope  that  in 
you  I should  find  the  angel  of  my  safety,  should  not  be  fulfilled,  until 
the  frenzy  into  which  a lying  dream  cast  Zdenko,  disturbing  the  whole 
tenor  of  his  pious  and  gentle  organization,  he  shared  all  my  aspira- 
tions, all  my  fears,  all  my  hopes,  all  my  religious  desires  concerning 
you.  The  unhappy  being  misconceived  you  on  the  very  day  in  which 
you  were  revealing  yourself.  The  celestial  light  which  had  always 
illuminated  the  mysterious  regions  of  his  spirit  was  suddenly  extin- 
guished, and  God  condemned  him  by  sending  upon  him  the  spirit  of 
frenzy  and  of  fury.  It  was  my  duty,  therefore,  also  to  abandon  him; 
for  you  had  appeared  to  me  more  wrapped  in  a blaze  of  glory ; you 
had  descended  toward  me,  upborne  on  wings,  as  if  a prodigy,  and  you 
had  the  command  of  words,  for  the  unsealing  of  my  eyes,  which  your 
calm  intehect  and  artistieal  education  rendered  it  impossible  for  you 
to  have  studied  or  prepared.  Pity  and  charity  inspired  you,  and  "un- 
der their  miraculous  influence  you  spoke  to  me  words,  which  it  was 
necessary  for  me  to  comprehend*  in  order  to  conceive  and  understand; 
truth  of  human  Ufa.” 


£92  coifgUBLo. 

* And  what  did  I ever  speak  to  y 3u  so  forcible  and  so  wise  f Of  a 
truth,  Albert,  I have  no  idea  of  it.” 

“ Nor  I,  myself.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that  God  himself  dwelt  in  the 
•ound  of  your  voice  and  in  the  serenity  of  your  gaze.  By  your  side  I 
understood  in  one  instant,  all  that,  if  alone,  I should  never  have  con>- 
prehended  in  my  whole  life.  I knew  before  that  time  that  my  life 
was  an  expiation,  martyrdom,  and  I sought  out  the  accomplishment 
of  my  destiny  in  darkness,  in  solitude,  in  tears,  in  indignation,  in 
study,  in  asceticism,  in  macerations.  You  presented  to  my  sight  a 
different  life,  a different  martyrdom ; one  of  patience,  of  gentleness, 
of  endurance,  of  devotion.  The  duties  which  you  explained  to  me  so 
artlessly  and  simply,  beginning  with  those  which  I owed  my  family, 
had  all  been  forgotten  by  me;  and  my  family,  in  the  excess  of  its 
goodness,  had  suffered  me  to  overlook  my  own  crimes.  I have  re- 
paired them,  thanks  to  you ; and  from  the  first  day  of  my  doing  so,  1 
knew,  by  the  calmness  which  reigned  within  me,  that  I had  done  all 
that  God  required  at  my  hands  for  the  present.  I know  that  I have 
not  done  all ; but  I expect  fresh  revelations  from  God  as  to  the  re- 
mainder of  my  existence;  but  I have  now  all  confidence,  since  I have 
discovered  the  oracle  which  I can  henceforth  consult.  It  is  you,Con- 
suelo  I Providence  has  given  you  power  over  me,  and  I will  not  revolt 
against  His  decrees,  by  endeavoring  to  escape  from  it.  I ought  not 
then  to  hesitate  an  instant  between  the  superior  power  invested  with 
the  capacity  of  regenerating  me,  and  the  poor  passive  creature,  who 
up  to  that  time  had  only  shared  my  distresses  and  bowed  before  my 
storms  of  frenzy.” 

“ You  speak  of  Zdenko  ? But  how  know  you  that  God  has  not  pre- 
destined me  to  cure  him  also?  You  must  have  seen  that  I had  al- 
ready gained  some  power  over  him,  since  I succeeded  in  convincing 
him  by  a single  word,  when  his  hand  was  already  raised  to  kill  me.” 

“ O my  God ! it  is  true.  I have  broken  faith ; I was  afraid ; I knew 
the  oaths  of  Zdenko.  He  had  sworn  to  me,  contrary  to  my  wishes,  to 
live  for  me  alone,  and  he  kept  his  oath  ever  since  I have  been  alive, 
in  my  absence  just  as  before,  and  since  my  return.  When  he  swore 
that  he  would  destroy  you,  I did  not  once  conceive  that  it  was  possi- 
ble to  prevent  him  from  carrying  out  his  resolution,  and  I took  the 
plan  of  offending  him,  of  banishing  him,  of  breaking  his  spirit,  and 
of  destroying  him.” 

“ Of  destroying  him — my  God  I What  does  that  word  signify  in  your 
mouth,  Albert  ? Where,  then,  is  Zdenko  ? ” 

“You  ask  me,  as  God  asked  Cain,  4 What  hast  thou  done  with  thy 

brother  ? ’ ” 

“ Oh  I heaven ! heaven ! you  have  not  killed  him,  Albert ! ” Consu- 
elo,  as  she  suffered  that  terrible  word  to  escape  her  lips,  clung  with 
tenacious  energy  to  Albert’s  arm,  and  gazed  at  him  with  terror,  min- 
gled with  painful  pity.  She  recoiled  from  the  cold  and  haughty 
aspect  which  that  pale  face  assumed,  in  the  expression  of  which 
agony  seemed  to  be  actually  petrified. 

“ I have  not  killed  him,”  he  made  answer,  “ and  yet  I have,  of  a 
surety,  taken  his  life  from  him.  Will  you  dare  to  impute  it  to  me  as 
a crime  ;t  you  for  whom  I would  perhaps  kill  my  father  in  the  same 
manner ; you  for  whom  I would  brave  all  remorse,  and  break  all  the 
dealest  ties,  all  the  most  cherished  realities?  If  I have  preferred 
the  regret  and  repentance  which  devour  me,  to  the  fear  of  seeing  you 
assassinated  by  a madman,  have  you  so  little  pity  la  yout  heart  as  te 


GOKIUKLO' 


263 


hold  that  remorse  perpetually  up  to  my  eyes,  and  to  reproach  me 
with  the  greatest  sacrifice  I have  ever  been  enabled  to  make  to  you  ? 
Ah,  you  also ! you  also  have  your  moments  of  cruelty.  Cruelty  can- 
not be  extinguished  in  the  heart  of  any  single  being  who  is  one  of 
the  human  race.” 

There  was  so  much  solemnity  in  this  reproach,  which  was  the  first 
that  Albert  ever  had  dared  to  make  to  Consuelo,  that  she  was  deeply 
alarmed,  and  felt — more  keenly  than  it  had  ever  befallen  her  to  feel 
it  before — how  great  was  the  terror  with  which  he  inspired  her.  A 
sort  of  humiliation  which  though,  perhaps,  childish,  is  nevertheless 
inherent  in  the  heart  of  woman,  succeeded  to  the  sweet  sense  of  pride 
against  which  she  had  vainly  striven,  as  she  heard  Albert  describe  the 

Eassionate  veneration  with  which  she  had  inspired  him.  She  felt 
erself  debased,  and  misunderstood  then,  beyond  a doubt;  for  she 
had  not  sought  to  penetrate  his  secret  without  a direct  intention  of 
doing  so,  or  at  least  without  a desire  of  responding  to  his  love,  should 
he  succeed  in  justifying  himself.  At  the  same  time,  she  saw  that  she 
was  herself  the  guilty  in  the  eyes  of  her  lover;  for  if  he  had  killed 
Zdenko,  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  had  no  right  to  condemn 
him  irrevocably  for  the  deed,  was  she  whose  life  had  required,  at  the 
hands  of  the  unhappy  Albert,  the  sacrifice  of  another  life,  which 
under  other  circumstances,  would  have  been  infinitely  precious  to 
him. 

Consuelo  had  not  a word  to  reply.  She  would  fain  have  spoken  of 
•ome  other  topic,  but  her  tears  cut  short  her  speech.  Albert,  now 
repentant,  would  have  humiliated  himself  in  his  turn,  but  she  im- 
plored him  to  speak  no  more  on  a subject  so  appalling  to  his  spirit, 
and  promised  him  in  a sort  of  bitter  satisfaction  never  again  to  pro- 
nounce a name  which  awakened  in  herself  no  less  than  in  him,  emo- 
tions so  fearful.  The  rest  of  their  walk  was  darkened  by  constraint 
and  piercing  anguish.  They  vainly  endeavored  to  hit  upon  some 
other  topic.  Consuelo  knew  neither  what  she  was  saying  nor  to 
what  she  was  listening.  Albert,  on  the  contrary,  appeared  calm  as 
Abraham  or  Brutus  after  the  performance  of  the  sacrifices  enforced 
upon  them  by  stern  destinies.  That  mournful  tranquillity,  deeply 
rooted,  and  weighing  upon  the  breast  with  something  of  the  weight 
of  madness,  was  not  without  some  resemblance  to  a lingering  rem- 
nant of  that  disease,  and  Consuelo  could  only  justify  her  friend  to  her 
own  mind  by  remembering  that  he  was  a madman.  If  in  an  open 
conflict  of  strength  against  strength  he  had  slain  his  adversary,  in  an 
attempt  to  save  her,  she  would  have  discovered  in  the  deed  only  a 
newer  cause  for  gratitude,  perhaps  for  admiration  of  his  vigor  and 
courage.  But  this  mysterious  murder,  committed,  doubtless,  amid 
the  darkness  of  the  cavern ; this  tomb  hollowed  out  in  the  very  place 
of  holy  prayer;  and  this  ferocious  silence  after  an  incident  so" horri- 
ble; this  stoical  fanaticism  with  which  he  had  dared  to  lead  her  inte 
the  cayern,  and  there  to  deliver  himself  up  to  the  charms  and  eesta- 
cis«  of  music,  all  this  was  too  horrible,  and  Consuelo  felt  that  the  love 
of  such  a man  could  never  penetrate  her  heart.  Then  she  began  to 
ask  herself  at  what  time  he  could  have  committed  this  murder.  “ I 
have  never  seen,”  she  said  to  herself,  “ during  these  three  months,  so 
deep  a frown  on  his  forehead  that  I should  attribute  it  to  remorse ! 
and  yet  had  he  not  one  day  seme  drops  of  blood  on  his  hand,  when  I 
would  have  offered  mine  to  him.  Oh  I horror  I horror  I He  must  be 
either  of  ice  or  marble,  or  he  must  love  me  with  ferocity;  and  I— I 


264 


eONSUELO, 


who  desired  to  be  the  object  of  an  illimitable  passion — I,  who  recrrt- 
ted  that  I had  been  b it  so  feebly  loved — I then  have  received  5om 
heaven  such  a love  as  this  for  a compensation.” 

Then  she  began  once  more  to  consider  at  what  moment  Albert 
could  have  performed  his  horrible  sacrifice,  and  she  began  to  imagine 
that  it  must  have  been  during  the  time  when  her  terrible  malady  did 
not  permit  her  to  take  the  slightest  notice  of  external  events.  Then 
again  when  she  called  to  mind  the  delicate  and  tender  attentions 
which  Albert  had  lavished  on  her,  she  could  not  reconcile  the  two 
several  phases  of  this  man’s  character,  who  was  at  once  so  different 
from  himself  and  from  other  men. 

Absorbed  in  these  painful  musings,  she  received  the  flowers  which 
Atbert,  knowing  that  she  was  very  fond  of  them,  was  wont  to  gather 
for  her  as  they  walked  along;  but  it  was  with  a trembling  hand  and 
an  abstracted  mind  that  she  received  them.  She  did  not  even  think 
to  leave  him  so  as  to  enter  the  chateau  alone,  and  suffer  it  to  appear 
that  they  had  not  been  so  together  tete-a-tete.  Whether  it  so  hap- 
pened that  Albert  thought  of  it  no  more  than  she,  or  that' he  was  de- 
termined to  carry  on  his  deception  with  his  family  no  longer,  be  did 
not  remind  her  of  it,  so  that  at  the  entrance  of  the  chateau,  they 
found  themselves  face  to  face  with  the  canoness.  Consuelo,  and 
probably  Albert  also,  now  for  the  first  time  saw  the  features  of  this 
woman,  whose  goodness  of  heart,  for  the  most  part,  concealed  her 
ugliness,  despite  her  leanness  and  deformity,  kindled  by  anger  and 
disdain. 

“ It  is,  indeed,  time  that  you  should  return  home,  Mademoiselle,” 
said  she  to  La  Porporina,  in  tones  trembling  and  broken  with'  agita- 
tion. “We  were  greatly  alarmed  concerning  Count  Albert.  Hi§ 
father,  who  has  not  chosen  to  breakfast  without  him,  was  anxious  to 
have  a conversation  with  him  this  morning,  which  you  have  thought 
proper  to  forget.  And  as  regards  yourself,  there  is  a slight  young 
man  in  the  drawing-room,  who  calls  himself  your  brother,  and  who 
is  waiting  for  you  with  more  impatience  than  politeness.” 

And  with  these  singular  words,  poor  Wenceslawa,  alarmed  at  her 
own  courage,  turned  her  back  abruptly,  and  ran  to  her  room,  where 
she  wept  and  coughed  for  above  an  hour. 


CHAPTER  LYIL 

“ My  aunt  is  in  a strange  mood,”  said  Albert  to  Consuelo,  as  they 
ascended  the  steps  leading  to  the  terrace.  “ I ask  your  pardon  in  her 
behalf,  dear  lady ; be  sure  that  this  very  day  she  will  change  both  her 
manners  and  language  toward  you.” 

“ My  brother! ” cried  Consuelo,  astonished  at  the  message  which 
had  been  delivered  to  her,  and  not  hearing  what  the  Count  had  said. 

“ I did  not  know  that  you  had  a brother,”  said  Albert,  who  had  paid 
more  attention  to  his  aunt’s  ill  temper  than  to  that  event  “Un- 
doubtedly H.  will  be  a pleasure  to  you  to  see  him,  dear  Consuelo,  and 
I am  rejoiced— — ” 

“Rejoice  not,  Monsieur  Le  Count,”  said  Consuelo,  of  whom  a sad 
presentiment  was  rapidly  taking  possession.  “ Perhaps  t is  a grea* 


eONSUELO, 


265 


calamity  which  is  at  this  moment  preparing  for  me,  and  I — ” ah« 
•topped  trembling  and  disturbed,  for  she  had  been  on  the  point  of 
asking  his  advice  and  protection,  but  she  feared  to  connect  herself 
with  him  too  closely,  and  scarcely  knowing  whether  to  receive  or  to 
avoid  one  who  introduced  himself  to  her  presence  through  the  medi- 
um of  a lie;  she  felt  her  limbs  yielding  under  her,  and  turning  very 
pale,  clung  to  the  balustrades  on  the  last  step  of  the  terrace  stair. 

“ Do  you  apprehend  some  painful  intelligence  from  your  family  ? w 
asked  Albert,  who  was  beginning  to  grow  uneasy. 

“ I have  no  family,”  replied  Consuelo,  compelling  herself  to  pro- 
ceed. She  was  on  the  point  of  saying  “ I have  no  brother,”  but  a 
vague  apprehension  prevented  her  from  doing  so.  But  as  she  crossed 
the  dining-room,  she  heard  the  boot  of  the  traveller  creaking  on  the 
drawing-room  carpet,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  impatiently.  With  an 
involuntary  movement  she  drew  nearer  to  the  young  count,  and 
pressed  his  arm,  entwining  her  own  around  it,  as  if  to  take  refuge  in 
his  love  from  the  sufferings  whose  approach  she  foresaw. 

Albert,  as  he  perceived  the  movement,  felt  all  his  mortal  apprehen- 
sions awakening  anew.  “ Do  not  go  in  without  me,”  he  whispered 
u I divine  some  presentiments  which  never  have  deceived  me,  that 
this  brother  is  your  enemy  and  mine.  I am  chilled  to  the  heart ; I 
am  terrified ; as  if  I were  about  to  be  compelled  to  hate  some  one.” 

Consuelo  disengaged  the  arm  which  Albert  held  tightly  clasped  to 
his  bosom.  She  trembled  at  the  idea  that  he  was  about  to  conceive 
one  of  those  singular  notions,  one  of  those  implacable  conclusions, 
of  which  the  supposed  death  of  Zdenko  had  given  her  so  frightful  an 
example.  “ Let  us  separate  here,”  she  said,  speaking  in  German,  for 
what  was  said  could  be  heard  in  the  adjoining  room.  “ I have  noth- 
ing to  fear  at  this  time,  but  if  in  future  any  peril  should  threaten  me, 
count  upon  me,  Albert,  I will  apply  to  you.” 

Albert  yielded  with  visible  reluctance.  But,  fearing  to  offend  her 
delicacy,  he  did  not  dare  to  disobey  her ; still  he  could  not  resolve  to 
leave  the  dining-room,  and  Consuelo,  who  understood  his  hesitation, 
closed  the  double  doors  of  the  drawing-room  behind  her,  in  order  that 
he  might  neither  hear  or  see  what  should  pass  therein. 

Anzoleto,  for  it  was  he,  as  she  had  but  too  surely  divined  through 
his  audacity,  and  too  well  recognised  by  the  sound  of  his  footsteps, , 
had  prepared  himself  to  meet  her  impudently  with  a fraternal  em- 
brace on  her  entrance  in  the  presence  of  witnesses.  But  when  he 
saw  her  enter  alone,  pallid,  indeed,  but  cold  and  stern,  he  lost  all  his 
courage,  and  cast  himself  stammering  before  her  feet.  He  had  no  oc- 
casion to  feign  tenderness  or  joy,  for  he  really  felt  the  two  sentiments 
on  seeing  her  once  again  whom  he  had  never  ceased  to  love  amid  all 
his  treasons.  He  burst  into  tears,  and  as  she  would  not  let  him  take 
her  hands,  he  covered  the  skirts  of  her  raiment  with  tears  and  kisses. 
Consuelo  had  not  looked  to  find  him  thus.  During  four  months  she 
had  thought  of  him  continually  as  he  had  showed  himself  on  the 
night  of  their  rupture,  bitter,  ironical,  despicable  and  hateful  above  all 
men.  That  very  morning  she  had  seen  him  pass  by,  with  an  jsolen* 
deportment  and  an  air  of  recklessness  which  was  all  but  impudent 
and  now  he  was  on  his  knees,  humbled,  repentant,  bathed  in  tears, 
as  in  the  stormiest  days  of  their  passionate  reconciliations.  Hand- 
somer than  ever,  for  his  simple  travelling  costume,  which,  though 
rude,  became  him  well ; his  fine  features  had  gained  a more  masculine 
tharactar,  from  the  exposure  to  the  weather  on  his  R>ad. 


C O N S U £ t O, 


m 

Panting  Lke  the  dove  which  is  already  in  the  falcon**  grasp,  she  wm 
compelled  to  seat  herself,  and  bury  her  face  in  her  hands,  in  order  to 
shield  herself  from  the  fascination  of  his  gaze.  This  movement, 
which  Ansoleto  took  for  one  of  shame,  encouraged  him;  and  the 
return  of  evil  thoughts  soon  destroyed  the  favorable  impression  made 
by  his  first  transports.  Anzoleto,  when  he  fled  from  Venice,  and 
from  the  mortifications  he  had  experienced  as  the  punishment  of  hi* 
faults,  had  but  one  idea,  that,  namely,  of  seeking  his  fortunes.  But 
at  the  same  time  he  had  never  abandoned  either  the  desire  or  the 
hope  of  recovering  his  beloved  Consuelo.  Talents  so  dazzling  as 
hers  could  not,  he  thought,  long  continue  hidden,  and  in  no  place  did 
he  neglect  to  inquire  for  her,  by  inducing  the  inn-keepers,  the  guides, 
and  such  chance-travellers  as  he  met,  to  enter  into  conversation. 
At  Vienna  he  had  become  acquainted  with  many  persons  of  distinc- 
tion of  his  own  country,  to  whom  he  confessed  the  outrageous  blun- 
der of  which  he  had  been  guilty,  and  his  flight  from  Venice.  They 
had  all  advised  him  to  go  yet  farther  from  Venice,  and  to  wait 
patiently  until  Count  Zustiniani  should  have  either  forgotten  or  par- 
doned his  escapade,  and  promising  to  interest  themselves  in  his  be- 
half, had  given  him  letters  of  recommendation  to  Prague,  Dresden, 
and  Berlin.  As  he  passed  before  the  Giant’s  Castle,  Anzoleto  had 
not  thought  of  questioning  his  guide ; but  after  an  hour’s  rapid  trav- 
elling, having  checked  his  pace  a little  in  order  to  permit  his  horses 
to  recover  their  breath,  he  had  resumed  the  conversation,  asking  him 
various  questions  concerning  the  country  and  its  inhabitants.  The 
guide  had  naturally  spoken  to  him  of  the  lords  of  Rudolstadt,  of 
their  mode  of  life,  of  Albert’s  extravagances,  and  of  his  madness, 
which  was  no  longer  a secret  to  anybody,  especially  since  the  hatred 
which  Doctor  Wetzelius  had  so  earnestly  sworn  against  him.  The 
guide,  however,  had  not  failed,  in  order  fully  to  complete  his  scandal- 
ous chronicles  of  the  province,  to  tell  him  how  Count  Albert  had  pul 
the  cope-stone  on  all  his  extravagances,  by  refusing  to  marry  hi9  noble 
cousin,  the  beautiful  Baroness  Amelia,  of  Kudolstadt,  having  entan- 
gled himself  with  an  adventuress  who  was  merely  good-looking,  but 
with  whom  the  whole  world  fell  in  love  as  soon  as  they  heard  her 
sing,  on  account  of  the  exceeding  beauty  of  her  voice. 

Theee  two  circumstances  were  so  wonderfully  applicable  to  Consu- 
elo, that  our  traveller  lost  not  a moment  before  enquiring  her 
name,  and  as  soon  as  he  heard  that  she  was  called  La  Porporina,  he 
no  longer  doubted  the  truth.  He  immediately  retraced  his  steps,  and 
after  having  hastily  stricken  out  the  title  and  pretext  under  which  he 
might  hope  to  introduce  himself  into  a castle  so  well  guarded,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  extract  some  farther  reports  of  bad  repute  from  his  guide.  The 
gossip  of  this  man  had  led  him  to  receive  it  as  a certain  fact  that  Consu- 
elo was  the  young  count’s  mistress,  awaiting  the  time  when  she  should 
become  his  wife ; for  she  had  bewitched,  as  he  said,  the  whole  family ; 
and  instead  of  sending  her  off,  as  she  deserved,  they  paid  her  more 
attention,  and  lavished  more  cares  upon  her  than  they  had  ever  done 
with  the  Baroness  Amelia.  This  narrative  excited  Anzoleto  yet 
more,  if  possible,  than  his  real  attachment  to  Consuelo.  He  had  con- 
stantly sighed  for  the  restoration  of  the  life  which  she  had  rendered 
so  delicious  to  him.  He  had  long  been  thoroughly  aware  that  in  lo»* 
ing  her  advice  and  her  directions,  he  had  lost,  or  at  the  least,  compro- 
mised, for  many  a day  to  come,  his  musical  reputation ; and  mort 
tfeaa  all,  be  wee  still  forcibly  attracted  to  her  by  a love  at  once  whW| 


eoirsusLo. 


Wl 

Jeep,  and  invincible.  But  to  all  this  was  added  the  vain-glorious 
temptation  of  disputing  the  possession  of  Consuelo  with  a rich  and 
nobfe  lover ; of  tearing  her  from  a brilliant  marriage,  and  causing  it  to 
be  said  that  this  girl,  who  was  so  nobly  provided  for,  had  preferred 
following  his  adventures  to  becoming  a countess,  and  a chatelaine. 
He  amused  himself,  therefore,  with  making  his  guide  repeat  that  the 
Porporina  reigned  as  absolute  sovereign  at  Riesenberg,  and  delighted 
himself  with  the  puerile  idea  of  leaving  it  for  that  man  to  tell  there* 
after  to  all  the  travellers  whom  he  should  guide,  that  a handsome 
youth,  passing  by  accident,  had  ridden  rough-shod  into  the  inhospita- 
ble Castle  of  the  Giants,  and  had  but  to  Come,  See  and  Conqueb, 
in  order,  at  the  end  of  a few  hours,  or  days,  more  or  less,  to  carry  off 
the  pearl  of  songstresses  from  the  very  high,  and  very  puissant  lord, 
the  Count  of  Rudolstadt. 

At  that  idea  he  plunged  his  rowels  into  his  horse’s  sides,  and  laughed 
until  his  guide  believed  that  the  madder  of  the  two  was  not  the  Count 
Albert. 

The  canoness  received  him  with  distrust,  but  dared  not  actually  eject 
him,  on  account  of  the  hope  she  entertained  that  he  might  perhaps 
carry  away  with  him  his  pretended  sister.  He  learned  of  her  that  Con- 
suelo  was  out  walking,  and  was  sulky  at  hearing  it.  Breakfast  was 
served  to  him,  and  he  questioned  the  servants ; and  one  of  them,  who 
alone  understood  a few  words  of  Italian,  thought  there  could  be  no 
harm  in  telling  him  that  he  had  seen  the  signora  on  the  mountain  with 
the  young  count.  Anzoleto  had  feared  that  on  their  first  meeting  he 
should  find  Consuelo  haughty  and  distant.  He  had  said  to  himself 
that  if  as  yet  she  were  but  the  honorably  betrothed  of  the  eldest  son 
of  the  family  she  would  wear  the  proud  bearing  of  one  confident  af  her 
own  position  ; but  if  she  were  already  his  mistress  she  would  be  less 
sure  of  her  standing,  and  would  tremble  before  an  old  friend  who  might 
have  it  in  his  power  to  disarrange  all  her  plans.  If  innocent,  her  con- 
quest would  be  the  prouder  feat:  if  she  were  already  corrupted,  it 
would  be  otherwise  in  that  respect,  but  in  neither  case  would  there  be 
any  reason  to  despair. 

Anzoleto  was  too  shrewd  not  to  discover  the  uneasiness  and  ill- 
humor  with  which  the  long  excursion  of  Porporina  and  her  nephew  ap- 
peared to  affect  the  Canoness,  and,  as  he  did  not  see  Count  Christian, 
it  was  an  easy  matter -for  him  to  disbelieve  the  guide,  and  to  fancy  that 
the  family  were  indisposed  and  hostile  to  the  union  of  the  young  Count 
with  the  adventuress,  and  that  she  would  smile  abashed  in  the  presence 
of  her  first  lover. 

After  awaiting  her  four  weary  hours,  Anzoleto,  who  had  the  time 
for  much  consideration,  and  whose  morals  were  not  pure  enough  to 
augur  well  of  such  a circumstance,  looked  on  it  as  certain  that  so  long 
an  interview  between  Consuelo  and  his  rival,  argued  an  intimacy 
without  any  limit.  He  was  therefore  the  more  daring,  the  more  reso- 
lute in  his  determination  to  wait  for  her,  without  suffering  himself  to 
be  repulsed;  and  after  the  first  irresistible  fit  of  tenderness,  with 
which  he  was  plunged  by  her  first  glance,  he  believed  himself  safe  in 
daring  all  things  so  soon  as  he  had  seen  that  she  was  overcome,  and 
that  she  sank  conquered  by  the  violence  of  her  emotions  upon  the 
nearest  chair.  His  tongue  there!  Dre  speedily  broke  its  bonds.  He 
•caused  himself  of  all  that  had  occurred,  he  humbled  himself  hypo* 
critically,  wept  as  mtich  as  he  chose,  relate/,  his  remorse  and  his  tor^ 
meat*,  painting  both  more  romantically  than  the  disgusting  interludes 


£68 


• C VBUlLft. 


between  them  had  allowed  him  really  to  feel  them,  and  In  conetaitoa 
Implored  her  pardon,  with  all  the  eloquence  of  a Venetian  and  of  a 
consummate  actor. 

Though  at  first  she  had  been  moved  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and 
alarmed  more  by  the  sense  of  her  own  weakness,  than  at  the  strength 
of  his  seductions,  Consuelo,  who  had  no  less  than  he  reflected  much 
during  the  last  four  months,  soon  recovered  enough  clearness  of  Intel* 
lect  to  recognise  in  all  these  protestations,  all  this  passionate  elo- 
quence, the  same  jargon  to  that  she  had  heard  fifty  times  curing  the 
latter  days  of  their  unhappy  connection  while  at  Venice.  She  was 
disgusted  at  hearing  repeated  the  same  old  oaths,  the  same  old  prayers, 
as  if  nothing  had  occurred  since  those  old  quarrels  at  a day  when  she 
had  so  little  understood  the  real  odiousness  of  Anzoleto’s  conduct. 
Indignant  alike  at  his  audacity  and  at  his  pouring  forth  such  elegant 
harangues,  when  nothing  was-  in  truth  desirable  but  the  silence  of 
shame  and  the  tears  of  repentance,  she  cut  short  all  his  fine  declara- 
tions, by  rising  to  her  feet,  and  replying  coldly:  “Enough!  enoughl 
Anzoleto.  I have  long  since  pardoned  you,  and  I have  no  longer  a n 
ill  feeling  toward  you.  Indignation  has  made  way  for  pity,  and  foi 
getfulness  of  the  wrongs  you  have  done  me  has  come  with  the  forgst- 
nilness  of  what  I have  suffered.  I thank  you  for  the  good  feeling 
which  led  you  to  interrupt  your  journey,  in  order  to  seek  a reconcilia- 
tion with  me.  Your  pardon,  as  you  see,  had  been  granted  beforehand ; 
so  now,  fare  you  well,  and  do  you  proceed  on  your  way.” 

“ What,  I ! I leave  you,  I leave  you  again ! ” cried  Anzoleto,  now 
really  alarmed.  “No.  Rather  would  I have  you  order  me  to  kill 
myself  outright  No : how  can  I resolve  to  live  without  you.  I could 
not  do  it,  Consuelo.  I have  endeavored,  and  I know  that  it  is  use- 
less. Where  you  are  not,  to  me  there  is  nothing — all  is  void.  My 
hateful  ambition,  my  miserable  vanity,  to  which  I would  in  vain  have 
sacrificed  my  love,  are  additions  to  my  torture,  and  give  me  no 
longer  even  a momentary  pleasure.  Your  image  pursues  me  every- 
where— the  memory  of  our  happiness  so  pure,  so  chaste,  so  delicious 
— and  whither  should  I go  to  seek  for  another  like  unto  you — is  ever 
before  my  eyes,  and  all  the  fantasies  with  which  I would  surround 
myself  now,  cause  me  only  the  deepest  disgust.  Oh ! Consuelo  I call 
to  mind  our  lonely  Venetian  nights,  our  boat,  our  stars,  our  intermin- 
able songs,  your  admirable  lessons,  our  long  thrilling  kisses.  Call  to 
mind  your  little  bed  whereon  I slept  alone,  while  you  were  saying 
your  rosary  aloft  on  the  terrace.  Did  nojt  I love  you  then  ? Is  it 
possible  that  a man  who  has  ever  respected  you,  even  when  you  were 
asleep,  and  when  shut  up  with  you  alone,  should  be  held  incapa;te  of 
loving  you  ? Say  that  I have  been  infamous  in  my  conduct  toward 
others,  have  I not  been  as  an  angel  toward  you  ? And  God  know* 
alone  what  it  cost  me.  Oh  I forget  not  all  this ! You,  who  declared 
that  you  loved  me  so  well,  you  have  forgotten  all  this ! and  I,  who  am 
an  ungrateful  wretch,  a monster,  a coward,  I have  been  unable  to  for- 
get, no  not  for  a single  instant ; and  I will  not  renounce  my  recollec- 
tions, although  you  renounce  them  at  once  and  without  an  effort. 
But  you  have  never  loved  me,  although  you  are  an  angel,  and  I hav* 
ever  adored  you,  although  I be  a demon.” 

“ It  is  possible,”  returned  Consuelo,  struck  by  the  accent  of  truth 
with  which  he  uttered  these  words,  “ that  you  do  feel  a sincere  regret 
for  that  happiness  which  was  tainted  and  destroyed  by  yourself  alone. 
If  BOp  It  is  a punishment  which  it  is  for  you  to  accept  humbly,  and 


CGSTSUBLO, 


269 


which  it  is  not  for  me  to  .urn  away  from  yon.  Happiness  corrupted 
yon,  Anzoleto.  It  is  necessary  now,  that  punishment  should  purify 
you.  Go,  then,  and  remember  me,  if  the  bitterness  of  that  remem- 
brance be  salutary  to  you.  If  not,  forget  me,  as  I forget  you.  I,  who 
have  no  fault  to  expiate  or  to  redress.’1 

“Ah!  you  have  a heart  of  steel,”  cried  Anzoleto,  surprised  and 
offended  by  her  incomprehensible  calmness.  “ But  do  not  imagine 
that  you  can  thus  drive  me  hence.  It  is  possible  that  my  arrival  an- 
noys, that  my  presence  wearies  you.  I know  well  that  you  desire  to 
sacrifice  the  memory  of  our  love  to  rank  and  fortune.  But  it  shall 
not  be  so.  I have  attached  myself  to  you,  and  if  I lose  you,  it  shall 
not  be  without  a struggle.  I wjill  recall  the  past  to  your  memory, 
and  I will  do  so  in  the  presence  of  your  new  friends,  if  you  desire  it. 
I will  repeat  the  oaths  that  you  made  by  your  dying  mother’s  bedside, 
wkich  you  have  renewed  to  me  a hundred  times  upon  her  tomb,  and 
in  the  churches,  whither  we  used  to  go  and  kneel  side  by  side  among 
the  crowds  to  listen  to  the  fine  music,  and  to  speak  in  subdued  whis- 
pers. I will  recall  to  your  mind,  humbly  kneeling  upon  my  knees, 
things  which  you  will  not  refuse  to  hear;  and  if  you  do  refuse,  wo  to 
us  twain.  I will  proclaim,  before  your  new  lover,  things  of  which  he 
ha*  no  suspicions.  For  they  know  nothing  of  you,  not  even  that  you 
h£ve  been  an  actress.  Well;  I will  tell  it  then,  and  we  will  see 
v?  ether  the  noble  Count  Albert  will  recover  reason  enough  to  dispute 
y m with  an  actor,  a friend,  an  equal,  a betrothed,  a lover!  Ah!  drive 
me  not  to  despair,  Consuelo,  or  soon—” 

“ Threats ! At  length  then  I find!  and  I recognise  you,  Anzoleto,” 
cried  the  girl,  now  thoroughly  indignant.  “ Ah,  I prefer  you  thus;  I 
thank  you  for  having  raised  the  mask.  Yes,  thanks  to  heaven! 
henceforth,  I have  neither  regret  for  you,  nor  pity.  I see  all  the  gall 
that  is  in  your  heart,  all  the  baseness  in  your  character,  all  the  hatred 
in  your  love.  Go,  satiate  your  spite.  Thus,  you  will  render  me  a ser- 
vice ; but  unless  you  are  as  deeply  used  to  calumny  as  you  are  to  in- 
sult, you  can  say  nothing  of  me,  which  can  call  up  a blush  to  my 
cheek.” 

As  she  spoke  thus,  she  turned  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  was  on 
the  point  of  leaving  the  room,  when  she  found  herself  face  to  face 
with  Count  Christian.  At  the  mere  sight  of  that  venerable  old  man, 
who  advanced  toward  him,  after  kissing  Consuelo’s  hand  with  an  all 
of  mingled  majesty  and  affability,  Anzoleto,  who  was  in  the  act  of 
springing  forward  to  retain  the  girl,  willing  or  unwilling,  returned  in« 
timidated,  and  lost  the  boldness  of  his  demeanor. 


CHAPTER  LVIIL 

* Dear  Signora,”  said  the  old  count,  “ pardon  me  for  not  having 
given  Monsieur,  your  brother,  a better  reception.  I had  given  ordem 
that  I should  not  be  interrupted  this  morning,  because  I was  occupied 
with  some  unusual  business;  and  I was  not  informed  timely  enough 
to  receive  a guest  who  must,  both  as  regards  myself  and  all  my  family 
be  welcome  in  this  house.  Be  assured,  Monsieur,”  he  added  turning 
toward  Anzoleto,  u that  it  is  wi-h  the  greatest  pleasure  I see  so  near  a 


270 


COICSUELO, 


relation  of  our  we  1-beloved  Porporina.  I beg  you,  therefore,  to 
main  with  us  so  long  as  it  shall  be  agreeable  to  you.  I presume  that 
after  so  long  a separation  you  must  have  many  things  to  say  one  to 
the  other;  must  feel  much  joy  at  finding  yourselves  again  together. 
I hope  therefore,  that  you  will  allow  nc  foolish  scruples  to  prevent 
you  from  taking  time  to  the  enjoyment  of  a happiness,  which  I my* 
»elf  share  with  you.” 

Contrary  to  his  wont,  the  old  Count  Christian  was  speaking  at  hi* 
ease  with  a stranger;  for  long  since  his  shyness  had  evaporated  when- 
ever he  was  in  the  company  of  the  gentle  Consuelo;  and  on  this  day  in 
particular,  his  countenance  seemed  to  be  illuminated  by  a ray  of  life 
more  brilliant  than  usual,  like  the  rays  which  the  sun  pours  abroad 
over  the  country  at  the  hour  of  his  setting.  Anzoleto  was  as  it  were 
stupefied  before  that  peculiar  majesty  with  which  uprightness  and  se- 
renity of  soul  shed  on  the  brow  of  a venerable  old  man.  He  knew 
well  how  to  fear  and  cringe  before  nobles  and  lords,  but  he  hated 
them  all  the  while,  and  mocked  them  inwardly  while  he  fawned  upon 
them.  He  had  found  but  too  many  objects  for  his  scorn  in  the  great 
world,  among  which  he  had  lived  so  short  a time.  Never  yet  had  he 
seen  dignity  so  well  maintained,  and  politeness  so  cordial,  as  that  of 
the  old  Chatelaine  of  Riesenberg.  He  was  confused  as  he  thanked 
him,  and  almost  repented  of  having  cheated  him  out  of  the  almost 
fatherly  reception  which  he  had  given  him,  by  an  act  of  imposture. 
He  feared  above  all  that  Consuelo  would  expose  him,  and  declare  to 
the  count  that  he  was  not  her  brother.  He  felt  at  the  time  that  if 
she  did  so,  he  had  it  not  in  his  power  to  play  his  part  with  effrontery, 
or  even  to  aim  at  avenging  himself  upon  her. 

“ I am  penetrated  by  your  goodness,  Monsieur  le  Comte,”  said  Con- 
suelo, after  a moment’s  reflection ; “ but  my  brother,  who  feels  it  as 
deeply  as  I do,  cannot  have  the  honor  of  partaking  of  it.  Pressing 
business  calls  him  to  Prague,  and  he  has  but  now  bid  me  adieu.” 

“ That  is  impossible,”  said  the  count.  “ You  have  seen  one  another 
but  a moment.” 

“ He  lost  several  hours  waiting  for  me,”  she  replied,  “ and  now  his 
minutes  are  numbered.  He  well  knows,”  she  added,  looking  signifi- 
cantly at  her  pretended  brother,  “ that  he  cannot  stay  here  a minute 
longer.” 

The  coldness  with  which  she  insisted  on  this,  restored  to  Anzoleto 
all  the  hardihood  of  his  character,  and  all  the  coolness  of  the  part  which 
he  was  playing.  “ Let  whatever  the  devil  will — I would  say  God  will,” 
(he  corrected  himself)  “come  of  it,  bat  I cannot  leave  my  sister  so 
speedily  as  she  would  have  me,  in  her  prudence  and  reason.  I knew 
no  business  which  is  worth  a minute’s  happiness : and  since  Monseig* 
neur  permits  me  so  generously,  I gratefully  accept  his  invitation.  I 
will  stay.  My  engagements  at  Prague  will  be  fulfilled  a little  later  ia 
the  day.  That  is  all.” 

“ This  is  talking  like  a vain  boy,”  replied  Consuelo,  deeply  annoyed. 
“ These  are  matters  of  business  in  which  honor  should  stand  above 
all  interests.” 

“ It  is  talking  like  a brother,”  replied  Anzoleto ; " and  you  are  al- 
ways talking  like  a queen,  my  good  little  sister.” 

“ It  is  talking  like  a good  young  man,”  added  the  old  count,  again 
offering  his  hand  to  Anzoleto.  “ I know  no  business  that  may  not  be 
deferred  until  the  morrow.  It  is  true  that  I have  always  been  re- 
proached for  my  indolence,  but  for  my  own  part  I havt  always  found 


CONSUELO. 


271 


worse  consequences  arise  from  i vshness  than  from  delay  For  in- 
stance, my  dear  Porporina,  for  these  two  days,  I might  say  these  two 
weeks  past,  I have  said  a prayer  t3  offer  to  you,  and  yet,  I have  put  it 
off  until  now.  I think  that  I have  done  well,  and  that  the  moment 
has  arrived.  Can  you  grant  me  to-day  the  hour’s  conversation  which 
I was  coming  to  ask  of  you,  when  I was  informed  of  your  brother5* 
arrival  ? It  seems  to  me  that  this  fortunate  circumstance  has  fallen 
out  quite  apropos , and  perhaps  he  will  not  be  out  of  place  in.  the  con- 
lb  rence  which  I propose  to  you.” 

“ I am  always  and  at  all  hours  at  your  lordship’s  commands,”  re- 
plied Consuelo.  “ As  to  my  brother,  he  is  a mere  boy  whom  I do  not, 
without  special  reason,  associate  in  my  personal  affairs.” 

“ I know  that  well,”  answered  Anzoleto  impudently : “ but  since 
Monseigneur  thinks  fit  to  authorize  me,  I have  no  need  of  any  per- 
mission but  his,  to  enter  into  this  confidential  interview.” 

“ You  will  be  so  kind  as  to  allow  me  to  judge  of  what  is  fitting  be- 
tween me  and  yourself,”  replied  Consuelo,  haughtily.  “ Monsieur  le 
Comte,  I am  ready  to  follow  you  into  your  apartment,  and  to  listen  to 
you  with  respect.” 

“You  are  very  stern  with  this  good  young  man,  who  looks  so  frank 
and  good-humored,”  said  the  Count,  smiling;  and  then  turning  to 
Anzoleto,  he  added,  “ Be  not-  impatient,  my  son.  Your  turn  will 
soon  come.  What  I have  to  say  to  your  sister  can  not  be  long  con- 
cealed from  you ; and  as  you  say,  I trust  that  ere  long  she  will  permit 
me  to  take  you  into  our  confidence.” 

Anzoleto  had  the  impertinence  to  reply  to  the  frank  gaiety  of  the 
old  nobleman,  by  retaining  his  hand  between  both  his  own,  as  if  he 
had  wished  to  attach  himself  to  him,  and  to  surprise  him  of  the 
secret  from  which  Consuelo  desired  to  exclude  him. 

He  had  not  even  the  good  taste  to  understand  that  he  ought  to 
leave  the  drawing-room,  in  order  to  spare  the  count  the  trouble  of 
leaving  it  himself.  But  when  he  found  himself  once  more  alone,  he 
stamped  with  rage,  fearing  that  this  young  girl,  who  had  now  become 
entirely  the  mistress  of  herself,  might  disconcert  all  his  plans,  and 
cause  him  to  be  turned  out  of  the  house  in  spite  of  all  his  cleverness. 
He  took  it  into  his  head,  then,  to  glide  out  into  the  body  of  the  house, 
and  to  go  and  listen  at  all  the  doors.  He  left  the  drawing-room  with 
this  intent,  wandered  for  a few  moments  about  the  gardens,  then  ven- 
tured into  the  galleries,  pretending,  whenever  he  met  any  of  the  ser- 
vants, to  be  admiring  the  fine  architecture  of  the  castle.  But  on 
three  different  occasions  he  observed  a singularly  grave  person, 
dressed  in  black,  pass  by,  whose  attention  he  felt  no  particular  incli- 
nation to  call  toward  himself.  This  was  Albert,  who  did  not  seem 
to  remark  him,  but  who  at  the  same  time  never  lost  sight  of  him. 
Anzoleto,  observing  that  he  was  taller  than  himself  by  a head,  and 
noticing  the  remarkable  beauty  of  his  features,  began  to  understand 
that  in  the  madman  of  Riesenberg  he  had  a much  more  formidable 
rival  than  he  had  imagined.  He  determined,  therefore,  on  returning 
to  the  drawing-room,  where  he  tried  his  fine  voice  in  that  large  area, 
running  his  fingers  abruptly  over  the  notes  of  the  piano  forte. 

“ My  daughter,”  said  Count  Christian  to  Consuelo,  after  he  had  led 
her  into  his  study  and  seated  her  in  his  great  velvet  arm-chair,  fringed 
with  velvet,  while  he  sat  on  a folding  chair  by  her  side.  “ I have  now 
to  ask  your  pardon,  and  I scarcely  know  with  what  right  I can  do  sof 
R&tii  you  are  aware  of  my  intentions.  May  I flatter  myself  that  my 


m 


grey  hair*,  my  tender  regard  for  you,  and  my  friendship  fbr  the  nobi* 
rorpora,  your  adopted  father,  may  give  you  confidence  enough  in  me, 
that  you  will  consent  unreservedly  to  open  your  heart  to  me?” 
Affected,  and  at  the  same  time  a little  alarmed  by  this  preamble, 
Consuelo  raised  the  old  man’s  hand  to  her  lips,  and  replied,  earnestly : 
* Yes,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  I respect  and  love  you  as  if  I had  the 
honor  to  have  had  you  for  my  father;  and  I can  answer  all  your 
questions,  so  far  as  they  concern  myself,  without  fear  or  equivoca- 
tion.” 

“ I will  ask  no  more  of  you,  my  dear  daughter,  and  I thank  you  for 
the  promise.  Believe  that  I am  as  incapable  of  abusing  it,  as  I believe 
you  to  be  of  breaking  it.” 

" I believe  you,  Monsieur  le  Comte.  Pray  proceed.” 

" Well,  my  daughter,”  asked  the  old  man,  with  an  artless  yet  en- 
couraging curiosity,  “ what  is  your  name  ? ” 

“I  have  no  name,”  replied  Consuelo,  without  hesitation*  wMy 
©other  had  no  other  name  than  Rosmunda.  At  my  b.  I was 
called  ‘ Mary  of  Consolation ; 9 my  father  I never  knew.” 

“ But  you  know  his  name  ? ” 

" I do  not,  my  lord.  I never  heard  him  even  spoken  of” 
u Master  Porpora  adopted  you,  I think.  Did  he  give  you  hk  ms 
by  a legal  process?  ” 

“ No,  my  lord.  Among  artists,  such  things  are  not  usual,  nor  are 
they  deemed  necessary.  My  generous  master  has  no  property,  nor 
anything  to  leave  to  me.  As  to  his  name,  it  is  a matter  of  no  conse- 
quence to  one  in  my  social  position,  whether  I bear  it  of  justice  or  of 
right.  If  I justify  it  by  the  possession  of  any  talents,  I shall  have  ac- 
quired it  fairly.  If  not,  I shall  have  received  an  honor  of  which  I am 
unworthy.” 

The'  count  was  silent  for  a few  moments.  Then,  taking  Consuelo’s 
hand  once  again : " The  noble  frankness,”  he  said,  “ with  which  you 
reply  to  me,  gives  me  the  highest  opinion  of  you.  Do  not  imagine 
that  I have  asked  these  details  in  order  to  undervalue  you,  either  for 
your  birth  or  your  condition.  I wished  to  perceive  whether  you  had 
any  reluctance  to  tell  me  the  truth,  and  I perceive  that  you  have 
none.  I give  you  infinite  credit  for  it,  and  I hold  you  nobler  through 
your  virtues  than  we  are  ourselves,  we  nobles,  by  virtue  of  our 
titles.” 

Consuelo  smiled  at  the  good  taste  with  which  the  old  patrician  ad- 
mired her  making  so  ready  a confession,  and  that  without  a blush. 
In  that  surprise  there  was  visible  to  her  a remnant  of  those  preju- 
dices which  existed  in  the  mind  of  Christian,  the  more  tenaciously  in 
proportion  as  he  resisted  them  the  more  nobly;  for  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  combating  them,  and  that  he  desired  to  conquer  them. 

“ Now,”  he  resumed, u my  dear  child,  I am  about  to  put  you  a quee« 
tion  yet  more  delicate  than  these,  and  I have  cause  to  ask  all  your  In- 
dulgence to  my  temerity.” 

“ Fear  nothing,  monseigneur,”  said  she.  “ I will  answer  everything* 
and  that  with  as  little  hesitation  as  the  last.” 

“ Well,  my  child,  you  are  not  married,  are  you?  ” 

"No,  monseigneur;  not  that  I am  aware.” 

“ And — you  are  not  a widow? — you  have  no  children?” 

"Iam  not  a widow,  and  have  no  children,”  said  Consuelo,  now  naif 
inclined  to  laugh,  not  guessing  at  what  the  6ount  was  aiming;. 

“ To  be  short  then,”  he  resumed,  “ you  have  not  engaged  yourself 
te  any  ene — are  yon  perfectly  free?” 


OOHSUILO, 


* Pardon  me,  monseigneur,  I had  engaged  myself  with  the  consent, 
and  even  by  the  commands  of  my  dying  mother,  to  a youth  whom  I 
had  loved  from  my  childhood,  with  whom  I was  brought  up,  and 
whose  betrothed  I was  when  I left  Y enice.” 

u Ah ! you  are  engaged,  then,”  said  the  count  with  a strange  mix- 
ture of  regret  and  satisfaction. 

“No,  monseigneur,  I am  perfectly  free,”  replied  Consuelo.  * He 
whom  I loved  broke  faith  with  me  disgracefully,  and  I left  him  for- 
ever.” 

* You  loved  him,  then  ? ” asked  the  count,  after  a pause, 
u I did.  With  my  whole  soul.” 

u And — perhaps  you  love  him  yet  ? H 
w No,  monseigneur,  that  is  impossible.” 

* And  should  you  have  no  pleasure  in  seeing  him  again.” 

“ The  sight  of  him  would  be  torture  to  me.” 

u And  you  never  permitted— I mean  to  say  he  never  dared > 

But  you  will  say  that  I am  intrusive,  and  seek  to  know  too  much.” 

“ I understand  you,  monseigneur ; and  since  I am  called  upon  to 
confess,  and  do  not  desire  to  obtain  your  esteem  surreptitiously,  I will 
put  it  in  your  power  to  judge,  to  a tittle,  whether  I deserve  it  or  not. 
He  dared  many  things — but  nothing  save  what  I permitted.  We  have 
often  drank  from  the  same  cup,  rested  on  the  same  bench.  He  has 
slept  in  my  room  while  I have  told  my  beads.  He  has  watched  over 
me  when  I have  been  sick.  I did  not  keep  myself  fearfully.  We 
were  alone  in  the  world,  therefore  we  loved  one  another ; we  were  to 
be  married,  therefore  we  respected  one  another.  T had  sworu  to  my 
mother  to  be  what  is  called  a prudent  girl ; and  I have  kept  my  word 
—if  it  be  prudent  for  one  to  believe  a man  who  is  bound  to  deceive 
her,  and  to  give  confidence,  affection,  and  esteem,  to  a man  who  de- 
serves no  one  of  these.  It  was  when  he  wished  to  cease  being  my 
brother  without  becoming  my  husband,  that  I began  to  defend  myself. 
It  was  when  he  began  to  be  faithless  to  me  that  I rejoiced  that  I had 
defended  myself.  It  was  in  the  power  of  that  man,  utterly  void  as  he 
is  of  honor,  to  boast  to  the  contrary.  But  to  a poor  girl  like  me  that 
matters  little.  So  long  as  I sing  truly,  the  world  asks  no  more  of  me. 
So  long  as  I can  look  without  remorse  to  the  crucifix,  on  which  I 
swore  to  my  mother  that  I would  be  chaste,  I shall  not  trouble  my- 
self much  what  the  world  says  of  me.  I have  no  family  to  blush  for 

me ; no  brothers,  no  cousins  to  fight  for  me ” 

u No  brothers  ? —you  have  one.” 

Consuelo  felt  herself  on  the  point  of  revealing  the  whole  truth  to 
the  old  count,  under  the  seal  of  secresy.  But  she  feared  that  it  would 
be  cowardly  in  her  to  seek  otherwise  than  from  herself,  protection 
against  one  who  had  menaced  her  so  cowardly.  She  thought  that  she 
ought  to  have  within  herself  firmness  enough  to  defend  and  deliver 
herself  from  Anzoleto.  And  farther  yet,  the  generosity  of  her  nature 
forbade  her  to  think  even  of  having  a man  turned  out  of  doors  whom 
she  had  loved  so  religiously.  How  politely  soever  Count  Christian 
might  contrive  to  rid  himself  of  Anzoleto,  how  infamous  soever  the 
conduct  of  Anzoleto  might  have  been,  she  could  not  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  subject  him  to  so  terrible  a humiliation.  She  replied,  there- 
fore, to  the  old  man’s  explanation  by  saying  that  she  regarded  her 
brother  as  a wrong-headed,  hair-brained  boy,  whom  she  had  never 
been  used  to  treat  except  as  a child. 

“ But  he  is  not  a had  character,  is  he  ? ” asked  the  count, 


“Perhaps  he  is  a bad  character  ” she  replied.  t%  I have  as  little  it 
do  with  him  as  posable;  our  characters  and  manners  are  very  differ- 
ant.  Your  lordship  must  have  remarked  that  I was  by  no  means  anx- 
ious to  keep  him  here.” 

“ That  shall  be  as  you  will,  my  child.  I believe  that  your  judgment 
is  excellent;  and  now  that  you  have  confided  everything  to  me,  with 
a frankness  so  noble ” 

“ Pardon  me,  monseigneur,”  Consuelo  interrupted  him.  “ I hava 
not  told  you  all  that  relates  to  me ; for  you  have  not  asked  me  all.  I 
am  ignorant  of  the  motives  for  that  interest  which  you  have  this  day 
deigned  to  take  in  my  existence : but  I presume  that  some  one  has 
spoken  to  you  more  or  less  unfavorably  of  me,  and  that  you  are  desir- 
ous of  knowing  whether  my  presence  here  is  a dishonor  to  your  house. 
Thus  far  you  have  questioned  me  only  on  very  superficial  points,  and 
I should  have  thought  myself  very  deficient  in  modesty  had  I pre- 
sumed to  enter  into  conversation  with  you  on  my  own  private  affairs, 
without  your  permission ; but  since  you  seem  to  wish  to  be  acquaint- 
ed with  everything  concerning  me,  I ought  to  inform  you  of  a circum- 
stance which  will,  perhaps,  lower  me  in  your  opinion.  It  is  not  only 
possible,  as  you  have  often  imagined,  that  I may  be  induced  to  adopt 
the  stage  as  a profession,  although  I have  at  present  no  such  inten- 
tion; but  it  is  also  true  that  I made  my  debut  at  Venice  last  year, 
under  the  name  of  Consuelo.  I was  surnamed  the  Zingarella,  and  all 
Venice  is  acquainted  with  my  face  and  my  voice.” 

“ Hold  I”  cried  the  count,  astonished  at  this  new  revelation,  “ You! 
— are  you,  then,  that  wonder,  concerning  whom  there  was  such  an 
ado  at  Venice  last  year,  and  who  was  mentioned  in  all  the  Italian 
papers,  with  such  pompous  eulogiums  ? The  finest  voice,  the  greatest 
genius,  that  has  been  displayed  within  the  memory  of  man.” 

“ On  the  stage  of  San  Samuel,  monseigneur,  doubtless  those  praise* 
were  grossly  exaggerated  ; but  it  is  incontestable  that  I am  that  very 
same  Consuelo,  that  I sang  in  several  operas,  and  that  I am  an 
actress,  or  as  people  call  me  more  politely,  a cantatrice.  You  can 
judge  now  whether  I deserve  the  continuance  of  your  goodness.” 

“ These  are  very  extraordinary  circumstances,  and  a very  singuhu 
destiny  1 ” said  the  count,  enwrapped  in  deep  reflections.  “ Have  you 
aver  mentioned  this,  here  to — to  any  other  than  myself,  my  child?  ” 

“ I have  told  nearly  all  of  it  to  your  son,  Monseigneur,  although  1 
have  not  gone  into  all  the  details  which  you  have  heard.” 

“ Albert,  then,  is  acquainted  with  your  extraction,  your  first  love, 
your  profession  ? ” 

“ Yes,  Monseigneur.” 

“ It  is  well,  my  dear  signora.  I cannot  thank  you  enough  for  the 
admirable  uprightness  of  your  conduct  in  regard  to  us ; and  I prom- 
ise you  that  you  shall  have  no  cause  to  repent  of  it.  Now,  Consuelo 
— (yes,  I remember  that  is  the  name  by  which  Albert  has  called  you 
from  the  first,  whenever  he  spoke  Spanish  with  you)— permit  me  to 
collect  myself  a little,  for  I feel  greatly  moved,  and  we  have  yet  many 
subjects  on  which  I wish  to  talk  with  you,  my  dear,  and  you  must 
pardon  the  trouble  I am  giving  you,  as  I draw  near  to  a decision  on 
so  grave  a subject.  Do  me  the  favor  to  wait  for  me  an  instant  here.” 
He  went  forth ; and  Consuelo  following  him  with  her  eyes  saw  him, 
through  the  gilded  doors  adorned  with  panes  of  plate  glass,  pass  into 
his  oratory,  and  there  kneel  down  and  pray  fervently, 
gradually  become  herself  vehemently  excited- she  became  lost  hi 


dONSUELO, 


27ft 


•oajectures,  as  to  what  she  uld  be  the  result  of  a conversation  so  sol- 
emnly introduced.  At  first,  she  thought  that  while  waiting  for  her, 
Anzoleto  had  already  done,  in  his  spiteful  mood,  what  he  had  threat- 
ened  to  do;  that  he  had  talked  with  the  chaplain,  or  with  Hanz, 
and  that  in  a manner  in  which  he  had  spoken  of  her  had  raised  seri- 
ous scruples  in  the  mind  of  her  hosts.  But  Count  Christian  was  one 
to  whom  it  was  impossible  to  feign ; and  up  to  this  moment  his  de- 
meanor and  his  words  both  implied  an  increase,  not  a falling  off,  cf 
affection.  Moreover,  the  frankness  of  her  replies  had  struck  him,  as 
if  they  had  been  most  unexpected  disclosures,  and  the  last,  more  es- 
pecially, had  overcome  him  like  a clap  of  thunder.  And  now  he  was 
praying  God  to  enlighten  him,  or  to  sustain  him  in  the  performance 
of  some  great  resolution.  Is  he  about,  she  asked  herself,  to  require 
me  to  separate  myself  fro*.  i my  brother  ? Is  he  about  to  offer  me 
money  ? — ah ! Heaven  preserve  from  that  outrage.  But  no ; he  is  too 
delicate,  too  kind,  to  dream  of  so  humiliating  me.  What,  then, could 
he  have  desired  to  say  to  me,  in  the  first  instance  ? what  can  he  de- 
sire to  say  to  me  now  ? Doubtless  my  long  walk  with  his  son  haa 
alarmed  him,  and  he  is  about  to  blame  me.  I have,  perhaps,  deserv- 
ed, and  I will  accept  the  lecture,  since  I cannot  reply  sincerely  to  the 
questions  which  he  may  put  to  me,  with  regard  to  Albert.  This  has 
been  a hard  day ; and  if  I pass  many  more  such  I shall  no  longer  be 
able  to  dispute  the  palm  of  song  with  Anzoleto’s  jealous  mistresses. 
I feel  as  though  my  breast  were  in  flames  and  my  throat  parched. 

Count  Christian  now  returned  to  her.  He  was  calm,  and  his  pale 
face  bore  witness  to  a victory  gained  with  the  noblest  intentions 
u My  daughter,”  he  resumed,  seating  himself  again  beside  Consuelo, 
and  compelling  her  to  retain  the  sumptuous  arm-chair,  which  she 
would  fain  have  resigned  to  him,  and  on  which  she  sat  enthroned; 
against  her  own  will,  with  an  expression  of  fear,  “ it  is  time  that  I 
should  reply  frankly  to  the  frankness  which  you  have  given  me. 
Consuelo,  my  son  loves  you.” 

Consuelo  turned  red  and  pale  by  turns.  She  endeavored  to  speak, 
but  Christian  interrupted  her. 

u I am  not  asking  you  a question,”  said  he.  “ I should  have  no 
right  to  do  so,  nor  you  any  to  reply  to  me ; for  I know  that  you  have 
in  no  wise  encouraged  Albert’s  hopes.  He  has  himself  told  me  all , 
and  I believe  him,  because  he  has  never  lied — nor  have  I.” 

“ Nor  I,”  said  Consuelo,  raising  her  eyes  to  heaven,  with  the  most 
candid  expression  )f  pride.  “ Count  Albert  should  have  told  you,mon 
•eigneur ” 

“ That  you  rejected  every  idea  of  a union  with  him.” 

“ It  was  my  duty  so  to  do.  I knew  the  usages  and  ideas  of  the  world, 
I knew  that  I was  not  made  to  be  a wife  for  Count  Albert,  if  for  thi* 
reason  only,  that  I hold  myself  inferior  to  no  living  being  before  God, 
and  that  I would  not  receive  as  grace  or  favor,  that  which  I hold  to  be 
just  before  men.” 

“ I know  your  just  pride,  Consuelo.  I sir  ould  think  it  exaggerated 
if  Albert  depended  on  himself  alone ; but  believing,  as  you  did,  that  1 
should  not  approve  such  a union,  you  were  bound  to  reply  as  you  did 
reply.” 

u Now,  Monseigneur,”  said  Consuelo,  rising,  “ I understand  all  that 
is  to  follow.  Spare  me,  I beseech  you,  the  humiliation  which  I have 
been  dreading.  I will  leave  your  house,  as  I would  have*  left  it  Iona 
ago,  had  I not  feared  by  doing  so  to  compromise  the  reason  or  the  life 


270 


COW  SUE  L O. 


of  Count  Albert;  on  which  I have  greater  influence  than  I have  ev« 
desired  to  possess.  Since  you  know  that  which  I was  not  permitted 
to  reveal  to  you,  you  cun  now  watch  over  him,  prevent  the  conse- 
quences of  this  separation,  and  resume  that  care  for  him  which  belongs 
to  you,  and  not  to  me.  If  I have  indiscreetly  arrogated  it  to  myself,  it 
ts  a fault  which  God  will  pardon  me ; for  he  knows  with  what  purity 
of  sentiment  I have  conducted  myself  thus  far.” 

“ I know  it,”  replied  the  Count ; “ and  God  has  spoken  to  my  con- 
science, even  as  Albert  has  spoken  to  my  affections.  Remain  seated 
therefore,  Consuelo,  and  do  not  be  in  haste  to  condemn  my  inten- 
tions. It  is  not  to  order  you  to  leave  my  house,  that  I asked  you 
hither ; but  rather  to  implore  you,  with  clasped  hands,  never  again  to 
leave  it.” 

“ Never  again ! ” cried  Consuelo,  sinking  back  in  her  chair,  over- 
powered alike  by  the  pleasure  she  felt  at  the  reparation  made  to  her 
dignity  by  this  generous  offer,  and  the  alarm  which  its  meaning 
caused  her.  “What!  Stay  here  all  my  life ! Your  lordship  cannot 
appreciate  what  you  have  done  me  the  honor  to  offer  me.” 

“ I have  thought  of  it  much,  my  daughter,”  replied  the  count,  with 
a melancholy  smile ; “and  I feel  that  I have  no  reason  to  repent  of  it 
My  son  loves  you  desperately ; you  have  all  power  over  his  spirit.  It 
Is  you  who  restored  him  to  me — you  who  sought  him  out  in  that  mys- 
terious place  which  he  will  not  disclose  to  me,  but  to  which,  he  has 
told  me,  no  other  than  a mother  or  a saint  would  have  dared  to  pen- 
etrate. It  is  you  who  risked  your  life  to  save  him  from  the  solitude 
and  the  frenzy  in  which  he  was  wearing  away  his  existence.  It  is, 
thanks  to  you,  that  he  has  ceased  to  give  such  terrible  cause  for  un- 
easiness, by  his  long  and  unaccountable  absences.  It  is  you  who  has 
restored  him  to  calmness,  health,  and  reason  by  a single  word ; for  it 
must  not  be  dissembled  that  my  unhappy  child  was  mad,  and  it  is 
certain  that  he  is  mad  no  longer.  We  passed  the  whole  of  last  night 
conversing  together,  and  he  showed  me  that  he  possessed  a wisdom 
superior  to  my  own.  I knew  that  you  were  about  to  go  out  together 
this  morning.  I had  given  him  authority,  therefore,  to  ask  you  that 
to  which  you  would  not  listen.  You  were  afraid  of  me,  dear  Consu- 
elo; you  thought  that  the  old  Rudolstadt,  thickly  swathed  in  his  aris- 
tocratic prejudices,  would  be  ashamed  to  owe  you  his  son.  Well,  you 
were  deceived.  The  old  Rudolstadt  had  his  pride  and  his  prejudices, 
doubtless,  perhaps,  some  of  them  he  has  yet — he  will  not  paint  him- 
self as  pure  before  you — but  he  abjures  them,  and  under  the  impulse 
of  an  illimitable  gratitude,  he  thanks  you  for  having  restored  to  him 
Ilia  last,  his  only  child. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

Consuelo  was  deeply  affected  by  a demonstration  which  re-estab- 
lished her  in  her  own  opinion,  and  quieted  her  conscience.  Up  to  that 
moment,  she  had  often  feared  that  she  had  given  way  imprudently  to 
her  generosity  and  her  courage.  Now  she  received  their  sanction  and 
their  reward.  Her  tears  of  joy  were  mingled  with  those  of  the  old  man, 
and  they  sat  a long  tUre  side  by  side,  both  too  much  affected  to  resum# 
th#  conversation. 


eovsuxLO' 


2T1 


Nevertheless,  Consuelo  did  not  yet  understand  the  proposition  which 
had  been  made  to  her ; and  the  Count,  fancying  that  he  had  explained 
himself  sufficiently,  looked  on  her  silence  and  her  tears  as  signs  of  her 
consent  and  gratitude.  “ I will  go  now,”  he  said  at  length,  “ and 
bring  my  son  to  your  feet,  that  he  may  join  his  blessings  to  mine  on 
learning  the  full  extent  of  his  happiness.” 

“ Hold,  Monseigneur  I ” cried  Consuelo,  astonished  at  his  precipita- 
tion. “ I do  not  understand  what  you  require  of  me.  You  approve 
of  the  affection  which  Count  Albert  has  bestowed  on  me,  and  the  de- 
votedness which  I have  exhibited  for  him.  You  grant  me  all  your 
confidence ; you  know  that  I will  not  betray  it ; but  how  can  I engage 
to  consecrate  my  whole  life  to  a friendship  of  so  delicate  a nature  ? I 
see  that  you  rely  on  time  and  on  my  reason  to  maintain  the  holy  and 
moral  disposition  of  your  son,  and  to  tranquilize  the  vivacity  of  his  at- 
tachment to  myself;  but  I know  not  whether  I shall  be  able  long  to 
maintain  that  power;  and,  moreover,  if  such  an  intimacy  with  a man  so 
enthusiastic  were  not  in  itself  too  dangerous,  I am  not  at  liberty  to  con- 
secrate myself  even  to  a task  so  glorious — I do  not  belong  to  myself.” 
“Heavens!  what  say  you,  Consuelo?  Have  you,  then,  misunder- 
stood' me  ? or  did  you  deceive  me  when  you  told  me  that  you  were 
free — that  you  had  no  attachment  of  the  heart,  nor  engagement,  nor 
family?” 

“ But,  Monseigneur,”  replied  Consuelo,  still  more  astonished,  " I 
have  a profession,  a calling,  a position.  I belong  to  the  art  to  which 
from  my  infancy  I was  consecrated.” 

“ What  do  you  say?  Great  God!  Do  you  wish  to  return  to  the 
stage?” 

“ I do  not  say  that.  I told  you  the  truth  when  I said  that  my 
wishes  point  not  that  way.  I have  not  yet  experienced  aught  but 
horrid  sufferings  during  that  stormy  career.  But  I feel,  nevertheless, 
that  I should  be  rash  were  I to  pledge  myself  to  renounce  it.  It  is 
my  destiny,  and  perhaps  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  mortal  to  elude  the 
ftiture  which  he  has  traced  out  unto  himself.  Whether  I return  to 
the  boards,  or  give  lessons  and  concerts,  I must  be  still  a cantatrice. 
For  what  should  I be  good,  if  not  for  that  ? Where  should  I find  in- 
dependence ? With  what  should  I occupy  my  spirit,  wearied  with 
toil  and  thirsting  for  that  species  of  excitement  ? ” 

“ O,  Consuelo ! Consuelo ! ” cried  Count  Christian,  with  a painful 
cry,  “ all  that  you  say  to  me  is  true.  But  I thought  that  you  loved 
my  son — and  now  I see  that  you  love  him  not.” 

“ And  if  I did  Jove  him  with  that  degree  of  passion  which  is  neces- 
sary to  self-renunciation,  what  should  you  say  then,  Moriseigneur  ? " 
cried  Consuelo,  impatiently.  “ Do  you  suppose  it  absolutely  impossi- 
ble that  a woman  should  fall  in  love  with  Count  Albert,  that  you  ask 
me  to  stay  with  him  always  ? ” 

“ What ! have  I then  explained  myself  so  ill,  or  do  you  think  me  an 
idiot,  my  dear  Consuelo  ? Have  I not  asked  your  heart  and  hand  foi 
my  son  ? Have  I not  laid  at  your  feet  a legitimate  and,  certainly,  an 
honorable  alliance  ? If  you  live  Albert  you  will  find,  doubtless,  in 
the  happiness  of  sharing  his  life,  a recompense  for  the  glory  and  the 
triumphs  which  you  will  forsake.  But  you  love  him  not,  since  you 
cannot  regard  it  but  as  impossible  to  sacrifice  what  you  call  the  destiny 
of  your  life.” 

This  explanation  was  certainly  tardy,  though  the  good  Count 
Chrfaiian  knew  It  not  It  was  not  without  a mixture  of  fear  and 


€f©F  Itf  BL0. 


m 

mortal  repugnance  that  the  good  old  lord  had  sacrificed  to  the  happt* 
neM  of  his  son,  all  the  ideas  of  his  life,  all  bis  principles  of  caste,  and 
when,  after  a long  and  painful  struggle  with  Albert  and  himself,  he 
had  consummated  the  sacrifice,  the  actual  ratification  of  an  act  so 
terrible  could  not  be  divulged  from  his  heart,  through  his  lips,  without 
a second  effort. 

This  Consuelo  foresaw  or  divined ; for  at  the  moment  when  Chris 
tian  appeared  to  give  up  all  hopes  of  obtaining  her  consent  to  this 
marriage,  there  was  certainly  a strange  expression  of  involuntary  joy 
mingled  with  a sort  of  consternation  legible  in  the  features  of  the  old 
lord.  • 

In  an  instant  Consuelo  understood  her  situation,  and  a pride,  per* 
haps  a little  too  personal  in  its  nature,  made  her  shrink  from  the  alli- 
ance that  was  proposed  to  her.  “ Do  you  wish  me  to  become  Count 
Albert’s  wife  ? ” she  said,  still  struck  with  wonder  at  so  strange  a 
proposal.  u Will  you  consent  that  I shall  bear  your  name?  will  you 
call  me  your  daughter?  will  you  present  me  to  your  relatives,  to  your 
friends?  Ahl  Monseigneur,  how  much  you  must  love  your  son,  and 
how  much  he  ought  to  love  you  I ” 

“ If  you  consider  this  generosity  so  great,  Consuelo,  it  must  be 
either  because  your  heart  can  conceive  none  such,  or  because  the 
object  of4  it  appears  unworthy  to  you.” 

“ Monseigneur,”  said  Consuelo,  having  collected  herself,  and  hid- 
ing her  face  in  her  hands,  “ I think  I am  dreaming.  My  pride  arouses 
in  my  own  despite,  at  the  thought  of  the  humiliation  in  which  my 
whole  life  would  be  steeped  were  I to  accept  the  sacrifice  which  your 
paternal  love  leads  you  to  offer  me.” 

“ And  who  would  dare  to  humiliate  you,  Consuelo,  when  the  father 
and  the  son  alike  would  shield  you  with  the  egis  of  marriage  and  of 
our  family  ? ” 

“And  the  aunt,  Monseigneur ; would  the  aunt,  who  is  the  true 
mother  of  this  family,  endure  to  look  on  that  without  a blush  ? ” 

“ She  will  come  herself  and  add  her  prayers  to  ours,  if  you  will 
promise  to  be  persuaded  by  them.  Do  not  ask  more  than  the  weak- 
ness of  human  nature  can  grant.  A lover,  a father,  may  endure  the 
humiliation  and  the  pain  of  a refusal ; my  sister  would  not  dare  en- 
counter it.  But  with  the  certainty  of  success  we  will  bring  her  into 
your  arms,  my  daughter.” 

“ Monseigneur,”  asked  Consuelo,  trembling,  “ did  Count  Albert 
tell  you  that  I loved  him  ? ” 

“ No,”  replied  the  Count,  struck  with  a sudden  reminiscence ; 
u Albert  told  me  a hundred  times  that  the  obstacle  would  be  in  your 
own  heart.  He  repeated  it  to  me  time  after  time ; but  I — I could  not 
believe  it.  Your  reserve,  I supposed,  was  founded  on  your  upright- 
ness and  your  delicacy;  but  I believed  that  delivering  you  of  your 
scruples  I would  obtain  from  you  the  confession  which  you  had  re- 
fused to  him.” 

“ And  what  said  he  to  you  of  our  walk  to-day  ? ” 

“ One  word  only.  ‘ Try,  father.  It  is  the  only  way  to  know 
whether  jt  is  pride  or  dislike  that  bars  against  me  the  avenues  of  her 
heart.’  ” 

* Alas  I Mon  seigneur,  what  should  you  say  were  I to  tell  you  that 
I know  not  myself.” 

“ I should  think  it  was  dislike,  my  dear  Consuelo.  Alas!  my  ton  I 
mj  unhapny  son  1 How  frightful  a destiny  is  this.  That  he  cannot 


eoMSDELo.  279 

to  loved  hy  the  only  woman  whom  he  can  ever  love . TIis  last  mis- 
fortune was  alone  wanting  to  us  I ” 

*Oh!  Monseigneur,  how  you  must  hate  me — oh,  my  God!  you 
cannot  understand  how  my  pride  can  still  resist  when  you  have  im- 
molated your  own.  The  pride  of  a girl,  such  as  I,  must  seem  to  you 
to  lack  foundation,  and  yet,  believe  me,  there  is  at  this  moment  aa 
violent  a strife  in  my  breast  as  that  which  you  have  vanquished  in 
your  own.” 

“ I understand  it.  Believe  not,  Signora,  that  I do  not  respect 
enough  the  modesty,  the  uprightness,  and  the  disinterestedness  of 
your  nature,  not  to  comprehend  the  pride  which  is  founded  on  the 
possession  of  such  treasures.  But  that  which  paternal  love  has  suf- 
ficed to  conquer — you  see  that  I speak  to  you  with  perfect  openness 
— I do  think  the  love  of  a woman  may  conquer  also.  Well,  then, 
supposing  that  the  whole  life  of  Albert,  my  own  life  and  yours, 
should  be  a struggle  against  the  prejudices  of  the  world — supposing 
that  we  must  suffer  much  and  long,  all  three  of  us,  and  my  sister 
with  us,  would  there  not  be  in  our  mutual  tenderness,  in  the  evi- 
dences of  our  consciences,  and  in  the  fruits  of  our  devotion,  enough 
to  make  us  stronger  than  the  whole  world  combined  against  us.  A 
great  love  makes  all  those  evils  appear  light,  which  seem  to  you  too 
heavy  for  yourself  and  for  all  of  us.  But  this  great  love  you  seek  for, 
timid  and  overcome,  in  the  depths  of  your  own  soul,  and  you*  find  it 
not,  Consuelo,  for  it  is  not  there.” 

“In  truth,  then,  you  are  right,”  said  Consuelo,  pressing  her  hands 
strongly  against  her  heart,  “ the  question  lies  in  that,  entirely  in  that: 
all  the  rest  is  as  nothing.  I,  also,  I have  had  my  prejudices : your 
conduct  has  proved  to  me  that  it  is  my  duty  to  tread  them  under  foot 
— to  be  as  great,  as  heroical  as  you  are.  Let  us  say  no  more  of  my  re- 
pugnances, of  my  false  shame.  Let  us  speak  no  more  even  of  my  fu- 
ture prospects,  of  my  art,”  she  added,  with  a deep  sigh.  “ Even  that 
I could  abjure ; if — if  I love  Albert,  for  it  is  that  which  I must  learn. 
Listen  to  me,  Monseigneur.  I have  asked  myself  that-  very  question 
more  than  a hundred  times ; but  never  with  that  confidence  which 
the  knowledge  of  your  decision  gives  me.  How  should  I have  been 
able  to  question  myself  seriously  on  that  point,  while  to  ask  that  ques- 
tion was  in  itself  as  I then  regarded  it,  either  a madness  or  a crime. 
Now  I believe  that  I can  know  myself,  and  determine.  I ask  of  you 
& few  days  to  collect  myself,  and  to  know  if  the  immense  devotion 
which  I feel  for  him,  the  unlimited  respect  and  esteem  with  which  his 
great  qualities  fill  me,  the  powerful  sympathy  which  he  commands, 
that  vast  dominion  which  lie  exerts  over  me  by  his  slightest  word, 
arise  from  love,  or  from  admiration  only.  For  I feel  all  this,  Monseig- 
neur, and  all  this  is  combated  within  me  by  an  inexplicable  terror; 
by  a deep  melancholy ; and  I will  confess  it  to  you,  O my  noble  friend, 
by  the  memory  of  a love  less  enthusiastical,  but  sweeter  and  more  ten- 
der, and  which  resembles  this  in  nothing.” 

•*  Strange  and  noble  girl,”  replied  Christian,  tenderly,  “ what  wis- 
dom, and  yet  what  wild  fantasies,  are  mingled  in  your  words.  In  ^ 
many  respects  you  resemble  my  poor  Albert,  and  again,  the  vague 
agitation  and  uncertainty  of  your  sentiments  remind  me  of  my  wife, 
my  noble,  my  lovely,  my  melancholy  Wanda.  O,  Consuelo,  you 
awaken  in  me  recollections  very  tender,  yet  very  bitter.  I was  about 
to  say  to  you,  Conquer  this  ir  esolution,  overcome  these  prejudices/ 
love,  from  virtue  only  from  greatness  of  soul,  from  compassion, 


280 


CONSUEL3. 


from  the  exertion  ot  a pious  and  ardent  cLarity,  this  unhappy  man, 
who  adores  you,  ana  who,  even  if  he  render  you  unhappy,  will  owe 
you  his  salvation,  and  will  make  you  worthy  of  a celestial  recom^ 
pense.  You  have  recalled  to  my  mind  his  mother — his  mother,  who 
gave  herself  to  me  as  a duty  and  an  act  of  friendship.  She  could  not 
feel  for  me,  a plain,  good-humored,  shy  man,  that  enthusiasm  which 
burned  in  her  imagination.  She  was,  however,  faithful  and  gener- 
ous to  the  end;  and  yet  how  she  suffered.  Alas  I her  affection  wa» 
my  joy,  and  at  the  same  time  my  torture ; her  constancy  my  pride 
and  my  remorse.  She  died  in  her  undertaking,  and  my  heart  was 
broken  for  ever.  And  now  if  1 am  living  without  an  object,  obliter- 
ated, dead  before  my  time,  be  not  astonished  at  it,  Consuelo ; I have 
suffered  what  no  one  has  ever  understood,  what  no  one  has  ever 
heard,  and  which  I tremble  in  confessing  to  you.  Oh ! rather  than 
induce  you  to  make  such  a sacrifice,  or  urge  Albert  to  accept  it,  may 
my  eyes  be  closed  in  grief,  and  may  my  son  fall  a victim  to  the  destiny 
which  it  would  seem  awaits  him.  I know  too  well  the  consequence 
of  endeavoring  to  force  nature,  and  of  combating  the  irresistible  pro- 
pensities of  living  souls.  Take  time,  then,  to  reflect,  my  daughter,” 
added  the  old  count,  pressing  Consuelo  to  his  breast,  swollen  with 
sobs,  and  kissing  her  noble  brow  with  all  a father’s  love.  “ Thus  all 
will  be  for  the  best.  If  you  must  refuse,  Albert,  prepared  by  previous 
anxiety,  will  not  be  thunderstruck  by  the  shock,  as  he  would  have 
been  to-day  by  the  horrible  information.” 

With  this  their  interview  was  ended,  and  Consuelo,  gliding  timidly 
through  the  galleries,  in  constant  apprehension  of  meeting  Anzoleto, 
took  refuge  in  her  own  chamber,  wearied  and  exhausted  with  excite- 
ment. 

First  she  endeavored  to  bring  herself  down  to  the  requisite  state  of 
composure  by  trying  to  get  a little  sleep.  She  felt  thoroughly  broken, 
and  scarcely  had  she  thrown  herself  upon  her  bed  than  she  fell  into 
a state  of  somnolence  which  was  painful  rather  than  restorative. 
She  was  desirous  of  falling  asleep  with  the  thought  of  Albert  on  her 
mind,  in  order  to  assimilate  it  to  herself  during  those  mysterious 
manifestations  of  sleep,  in  which  we  sometimes  believe  that  we  find 
the  prophetic  meaning  of  things  which  pre-occupy  our  minds.  But  the 
interrupted  dreams  which  flitted  through  her  mind  for  several  hours, 
incessantly,  brought  back  to  her  eyes  Anzoleto  in  lieu  of  Albert.  It 
was  ever  Venice — ever  the  Corte  Minelli.  It  was  ever  her  first  love, 
calm,  full  of  promise,  and  poetical.  And  each  time  that  she  awoke 
the  recollection  of  Albert  must  needs  return  to  her,  accompanied  by 
sinister  thoughts  of  the  cavern,  wherein  sounds  of  the  violin,  repeated 
tenfold  by  the  echoes  of  the  solitude,  seemed  to  evoke  the  dead,  or  to 
mourn  over  the  scarce  closed  tomb  of  Zdendo.  At  that  idea  fear  and 
sorrow  closed  her  heart  against  any  impression  of  tenderness.  The 
future  which  was  proposed  to  her,  came  to  her  fancy  only  through  the 
medium  of  cold  darkness  and  bloody  visions,  while  the  past,  radiant 
and  fertile  of  happiness,  gave  her  bosom  to  expand,  and  filled  her 
heart  with  joyous  palpitations.  She  thought,  as  she  dreamed  of  that 
past,  that  she  heard  her  own  voice  echoing  through  boundless  spacer 
filling  the  void  of  nature,  and  widening  in  vast  circles  as  it  soared  up- 
ward to  the  universe ; while  on  the  other  hand,  so  often  as  the  fan- 
tastical sounds  of  the  cavern-violin  returned  to  her  mind,  her  voice 
became  hollow  and  disma. , and  lost  itself  like  the  death-rattle  in  the 
abyss  of  the  earth. 

v * * . • 


281 


C0N8UEL0. 

Those  vague  dream*  wearied  her  to  such  a degree  that  she  arose  lo 
order  to  banish  them ; and  the  first  tones  of  the  bell  informing  hei 
that  dinner  would  be  served  within  half  an  hour,  she  began  to  dress 
herself,  still  continuing  to  involve  herself  in  all  the  same  ideas.  But 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  was  more 
attentive  to  her  mirror,  and  more  occupied  with  her  hair  and  its 
adjustment,  than  with  the  serious  affairs  of  which  she  was  seeking  a 
solution.  In  spite  of  herself  she  made  herself  as  handsome  as  she 
could,  and  desired  to  be  so.  And  it  was  not  to  awaken  the  desires 
and  arouse  the  jealousy  of  two  rival  lovers,  that  she  felt  that  irresisti- 
ble impulse  of  coquetry ; she  thought  not,  she  could  not  think  save 
of  one  only.  Albert  had  never  said  a word  to  her  of  her  face.  In 
the  enthusiasm  of  his  passion  he  thought  her  more  beautiful  than  she 
really  was ; but  so  elevated  were  his  ideas,  that  he  would  have  deem- 
ed it  a profanation  to  look  at  her  person  with  the  eyes  of  a lover,  or 
scrutinize  her  with  the  satisfaction  of  an  artist.  She  was  always 
enveloped  in  a cloud  which  his  eyes  could  not  penetrate,  and  which 
his  fancy  converted  into  a dazzling  glory.  Whether  she  looked  better 
or  worse,  to  him  she  was  ever  the  same.  He  had  seen  her  pale, 
emaciated,  faded,  struggling  in  the  embrace  of  death,  and  resembling 
a spectre  rather  than  a woman.  He  had  then  sought  in  her  features, 
with  attention  and  anxiety,  the  symptoms  of  her  malady  for  the  bet- 
ter or  for  the  worse ; but  it  never  had  occurred  to  him  to  think  in 
that  moment  whether  she  was  ugly  or  not,  nor  whether  she  could 
ever  become  an  object  of  repugnance  and  disgust.  And  when  she 
Had  recovered  all  the  brilliancy  of  her  youth,  and  the  expression  of 
life,  he  saw  not  whether  she  had  lost  or  gained  beauty.  She  was  to 
him,  whether  in  life  or  in  death,  the  ideal  of  all  youth,  of  all  sublime 
expression,  of  all  unmatched  and  incomparable  beauty.  Thus  Con- 
suelo  had  never  once  thought  of  him  while  she  was  dressing  herself 
before  her  mirror. 

But  what  a difference  on  the  part  of  Anzoleto ; with  what  minute 
attention  he  had  gazed  at  her,  judged  and  dissected  her  in  his  imagi- 
nation, on  the  day  when  he  had  asked  himself  whether  she  was  not 
ugly?  Now,  he  had  taken  note  of  the  smallest  graces  of  her  person, 
now  admired  the  least  pains  she  had  taken  to  please  him ! How  he 
knew  her  hair,  her  arms,  her  foot,  her  carriage,  every  tint  that  was 
blended  in  her  beautiful  complexion,  every  fold  of  her  wavy  garments  I 
With  what  ardent  vivacity  he  had  praised  her  loveliness ; with  what 
voluptuous  languishment  he  had  perused  her!  At  that  time,  the 
chaste  girl  understood  not  the  beatings  of  her  own  heart.  She  wished 
not  to  understand  them  now;  and  yet  she  felt  them  grow  more  vio- 
lent at  the  idea  of  reappearing  before  his  eyes.  She  grew  angry  with 
herself;  she  blushed  for  very  shame  and  vexation ; she  endeavored  to 
beautify  herself  for  Albert  alone ; and  yet  unconsciously  she  chose  the 
head-dress,  the  riband,  and  even  the  expression  of  the  eye  which  pleas- 
ed Anzoleto.  “ Alas ! alas ! ” she  said  to  herself,  as  she  tore  herself 
away  from  the  mirror,  when  her  toilet  was  completed ! “ it  is  then 
true  that  I can  think  but  of  him  alone,  and  that  happiness  overpass- 
ed exercises  over  me  a power  more  puissant  than  that  effected  by 
present  contempt,  and  tin  promise  of  a future  love.  I may  look  to 
the  future  as  I will,  witho  at  him  it  can  be  nothing  but  terror  and  de- 
spair. And  what  would  it  be  with  him  ? Do  I not  know  that  the  hap- 
py days  of  Venice  cannot  return  again;  that  innocence  can  never 
dwell  with  us  again,  that  the  soul  of  Arzoleto  is  so  brutalized  and  cor- 


282 


COK8CEI  O. 


/ 

rupted,  that  his  caresses  would  debase  me,  and  that  rny  life  would 
hourly  be  poisoned  by  shame,  jealousy,  terror  and  regret?  ” 

While  she  questioned  herself  on  this  head  with  the  strictest  sever 
fry,  Consuelo  was  assured  that  she  was  not  deceiving  herself,  and  that 
•he  had  n >t  the  most  secret  emotion  of  desire  for  Anzoleto.  She 
ioved  him  not  at  the  present— she  feared  and  almost  detested  him  in 
a futurity,  wherein  his  perversity  must  needs  increase  constantly ; but 
in  the  past,  she  loved  him  so  passionately  that  her  life  and  soul  seem- 
ed inextricably  bound  up  in  the  memory  of  him.  He  was  henceforth 
to  her  as  the  portrait  of  a being  whom  she  had  once  adored,  remind* 
ing  her  of  days  of  delights ; and,  like  a newly  married  widow,  who 
conceals  herself  from  her  new  husband  in  order  to  gaze  on  the  por- 
trait of  the  old,  she  felt  that  the  dead  love  had  more  vitality  than  tie 
living  within  her  heart 


CHAPTER  LX.  * 

CoirstJELO  had  too  much  judgment  and  too  much  elevation  of 
spirit  not  to  know  that  of  the  two  loves  which  she  inspired,  that  of 
Count  Albert  was,  without  a possibility  of  comparison,  the  truer,  the 
nobler,  and  the  more  precious.  So  that  wThen  she  found  herself  in  the 
presence  of  the  two,  she  believed  she  had  triumphed'over  her  enemy. 
The  deep  gaze  of  Albert,  which  seemed  to  sink  to  the  very  bottom  of 
her  soul,  the  slow  and  firm  pressure  of  his  loyal  hand,  made  her  aware 
that  he  was  acquainted  with  the  circumstance  of  her  conference  with 
Christian,  and  that  he  awaited  her  final  decision  submissively  and 
gratefully.  In  truth,  Albert  had  obtained  more  than  he  Lad  expeo- 
ted ; and  the  very  uncertainty  which  he  now  felt  was  pleasurable  to 
him  as  compared  with  that  which  he  had  apprehended ; so  far  was  he 
removed  from  the  overbearing  and  insolent  presumption  of  Anzoleto. 
He,  on  the  contrary,  had  armed  himself  with  all  his  resolution. 

Having  divined  with  considerable  accuracy  what  was  going  on 
around  him,  he  had  determined  to  fight  it  foot  by  foot,  and  not  to 
leave  the  house  until  he  should  be  thrust  out  by  the  shoulders.  His 
free  and  easy  attitude,  his  ironical  and  impudent  glance,  disgvsted 
Consuelo  to  the  last  degree;  and  when  he  came  up  to  her  with  his 
usual  effrontery,  and  offered  his  hand,  she  turned  away  and  took  that 
which  Albert  presented  to  conduct  her  to  dinner.  As  was  the  upual 
habit,  the  young  count  took  his  place  at  table  opposite  to  Consuelo, 
and  the  old  Christian  made  her  seat  herself  at  his  left,  in  the  chair 
formerly  occupied  by  the  Baroness  Amelia,  which  she  had  used  since 
her  departure.  But  in  the  place  of  the  chaplain,  who  ordinarily  sat 
there,  the  canoness  insisted  upon  the  pretended  brother  to  place  him- 
self between  them ; so  that  all  Anzoleto’s  bitter  sarcasms  uttered  in 
the  lowest  whisper  could  rea  ;h  the  ears  of  the  young  girl,  while  his 
irreverent  sallies  could  offend  as  much  as  he  desired,  the  aged  priest, 
on  whom  he  had  already  tried  his  hand. 

Anzoleto’s  plan  was  very  simple.  He  was  anxious  to  render  him- 
self odious  and  insupportable  to  those  members  of  the  family  whom 
he  suspected  of  being  averse  to  the  projected  marriage,  in  order  to 
give  them,  by  his  cwn  vulgarity,  h’s  familiar  air,  and  his  misapplies* 


CONSUELO. 


288 


Hon  of  words,  the  worst  idea  of  the  companions  and  family  of  Con- 
saelo.  “We  shall  see/’  thoight  he  to  himself,  “how  they  will  get 
down  the  brother , whom  I am  about  to  serve  up  to  them.” 

Anzoleto,  who  was  a very  unfinished  singer,  and  but  a moderate 
tragedian,  had  an  intuitive  talent  as  a good  comedian.  He  had 
already  seen  enough  of  the  world  to  know  how  to  imitate  the  elegant 
maimers  and  the  agreeable  language  of  good  society;  but  to  play 
that  part  would  have  been  only  to  reconcile  the'canoness  to  the  low 
extraction  of  her  son-in-law,  and  he  therefore  undertook  the  opposite 
line,  and  with  the  more  success  in  that  it  was  more  natural  to  him. 
Being  well  satisfied  that,  although  Wenceslawa  persisted  in  speaking 
no  language  hut  German,  the  Court  tongue,  and  that  used  in  grave 
business,  she  did  not  miss  a word  which  he  spoke  in  Italian ; he  set 
himself  to  chatting,  right  or  wrong,  to  singing  the  praises  of  the  good 
Hungarian  wine,  the  effects  of  which  he  did  not  fear  in  the  least,  ac- 
customed as  he  was  of  old  to  far  more  heady  beverages,  but  of  which 
he  soon  pretended -to  feel  the  hearty  influences,  in  order  to  give  him- 
self a more  inveterate  character  as  a drunkard. 

His  project  succeeded  to  a marvel.  Count  Christian,  after  having 
at  first  laughed  indulgently  at  his  sallies  and  his  buffoonery,  soon  ceased 
to  smile  but  with  an  effort,  and  required  all  the  urbanity  of  his  posi- 
tion as  a lord  in  his  own  house,  and  all  his  affection  as  a father,  to  pre- 
vent his  setting  the  odious  brother-in-law,  that  was  to  be,  of  his  noble 
«on,  in  his  proper  place.  The  chaplain,  perfectly  indignant,  could  not 
sit  easy  on  his  chair,  and  murmured  German  exclamations  which 
sounded  like  exorcisms.  His  meal  was  dreadfully  disturbed,  and  never 
in  his  life  was  his  digestion  more  uneasy.  The  canoness  listened  to  all 
the  impertinences  of  her  guest  with  a constrained  contempt  and  a ma- 
lignant satisfaction.  At  each  new  misdemeanor  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
her  brother  as  if  to  call  him  to  witness ; and  the  good  Christian  bowed 
his  head,  pretending  to  be  absent,  in  order  to  distract  ttie  observation 
of  the  auditors.  Then  the  canoness  would  look  toward  Albert;  but 
Albert  was  impassive.  He  seemed  neither  to  hear  nor  see  their  un- 
pleasant and  jovial  guest. 

But  the  most  cruelly  annoyed  of  all  the  persons  present  was  un- 
questionably poor  Consuelo.  At  first  she  believed  that  Anzoleto,  in 
his  long  career  of  debauchery,  had  contracted  those  dissipated  man- 
ners and  that  impudent  turn  of  mind  which  almost  hindered  her  re- 
cognition of  him.  She  was  indeed  disgusted  and  astounded  to  such  a 
degree  as  to  be  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  table.  But  when  she  per- 
ceived that  it  was  a ruse  de  guerre , she  recovered  the  composure  which 
became  her  innocence  and  her  dignity.  She  had  not  mingled  herself 
with  the  secrets  and  afflictions  of  that  family,  to  win  by  intrigue  the 
station  that  was  offered  to  her.  That  rank  had  not  flattered  her  am- 
bition even  for  an  instant,  and  she  felt  strong  in  her  uprightness  of 
conscience,  to  defy  the  secret  suspicions  of  the  canoness.  She  saw 
at  a glance  that  the  love  of  Albert  and  the  confidence  of  his  father 
were  superior  to  s^ch  a wretched  trial ; and  the  contempt  which  she 
felt  for  Anzoleto,  cowardly  and  malicious  in  his  vengeance,  rendered 
her  stronger  yet.  Her  eyes  once  met  those  of  Albert,  and  they  under- 
stood each  other.  Those  cf  Consuelo  a£ked  the  question,  “ Yes  f * 
and  those  of  Albert  replied,  “ In  spite  of  all.” 

“ It  is  not  done  yet,”  said  Anzoleto,  in  a low  voice  to  Consuelo,  for 
he  had  seen  and  interpreted  the  glance. 

“ You  are  assisting  me  much,”  replied  Consuelo,  * and  I thank  ytMR 
Ifer  it.” 


C0N8UEL0, 


284 

They  were  both  speaking  between  their  lips  in  that  rapid  Venetian 
iftalect  which  seems  to  be  composed  almost  entirely  of  vowels,  and  in 
which  there  are  so  many  ellipses  that  even  Italians  of  Rome  or  Flor- 
ence have  themselves  some  trouble  in  understanding  it  at  a first 
hearing. 

“ I can  easily  imagine  that  you  detest  me  at  this  moment,”  said  An- 
soleto ; “ and  that  you  think  it  certain  that  you  shall  hate  me  forever. 
But  you  shall  never  escape  me  for  all  that.” 

“You  have  unmasked  too  soon,”  said  Consuelo. 

“ But  not  too  late,”  replied  Anzoleto.  “ Come,  Padre  mis  Beneditto 
he  continued,  addressing  himself  to  the  chaplain,  and  nudging  his 
elbow  in  such  a sort  as  to  make  him  spill  half  the  glass  of  wine  which  he 
was  raising  to  his  lips  over  his  hand.  “ Drink  more  courageously  of 
this  good  wine,  which  does  as  much  good  both  to  soul  and  body  as 
that  of  the  holy  mass.  Seigneur  Count,”  he  continued,  presenting  his 
glass  to  the  aged  Christian,  “ you  have  in  reserve  by  your  side,  a flask 
of  yellow  crystal,  which  shines  like  the  sun.  I am  sure  that  if  I were 
to  swallow  only  one  drop  of  the  nectar  it  contains  I should  be  changed 
into  a demigod.” 

“ Beware,  my  good  youth,”  said  the  count  laying  his  hand,  covered 
with  rings,  on  the  cut  neck  of  the  flask..  “ Old  men’s  wine  sometimes 
shuts  young  men’s  mouths.” 

“ You  have  a rage  for  being  as  pretty  as  a goblin,”  said  Anzoleto  in 
good  clear  Italian  to  Consuelo,  so  that  every  one  at  table  could  hear 
him.  “ You  put  me  in  mind  of  the  Diav olessa  of  Galuppi,  which  you 
acted  so  well  at  Venice  last  year.  Ah  ha!  Seigneur  Count,  do  you 
expect  to  keep  my  sister  long  here  in  your  golden  cage,  lined  with 
silk.  She  is  a song-bird,  I can  tell  you,  and  the  bird  which  is  robbed  of 
its  voice  soon  loses  its  pretty  feathers  also.  She  is  very  happy  here,  1 
can  Well  understand.  But  that  good  public,  whom  §he  turned  giddy 
with  admiration  last  season,  is  asking  for  her  again,  and  that  aloud, 
down  yonder ; and,  as  for  me,  if  you  would  give  me  your  name,  your 
castle,  all  the  wine  in  your  cellar,  and  your  venerable  chaplain  to  boot, 
I would  not  renounce  my  quinquetoes,  my  buskins,  and  my  flourishes.” 

“You  are  a comedian,  then,  too,  are  you?”  asked  the  canoness, 
with  dry,  cold  disdain. 

“ A comedian ! a mountebank , at  your  service,  illustrissima ,”  replied 
Anzoleto,  without  being  in  the  least  disconcerted. 

a Has  he  talent  ? ” enquired  the  old  Christian  of  Consuelo,  with  * 
tranquillity  full  of  kindness  and  benevolence. 

“ None  whatever,”  replied  Consuelo,  looking  on  her  adversary  witf* 
pity. 

“ If  it  be  so,  you  accuse  yourself,”  said  Anzoleto,  a for  I am  your  pu- 
pil. I hope,  nevertheless,  that  I have  enough,”  he  added  in  Venetian 
“ to  upset  your  game.” 

“ It  is  yourself  on.y  that  you  will  harm,”  replied  Consuelo,  in  the 
same  dialect.  “ Evil  intentions  corrupt  the  heart,  and  yours  will  lose 
more  by  all  this  than  you  can  make  me  lose  in  the  opinion  of  others.” 

“ I am  glad  to  see  that  you  accept  my  challenge.  It  is  needless  to 
lower  your  eyes  beneath  the  shade  of  your  vigor,  for  I can  see  rage 
and  spite  sparkle  in  your  eyes.” 

“ Alas  l you  can  read  nothing  in  them  but  deep  disgust  on  your  own 
account.  I hoped  I should  have  been  able  to  forget  that  I ought  Vo 
lespise  you,  but  you  take  pleasure  in  recalling  it  to  my  mindLr 

“ Contempt  and  love  oftentimes  go  together.” 

F- 

L • 


OOH81  KLO, 


886 


• In  evil  spirits" 

a In  the  proudest  spirits — so  it  has  been,  so  it  shall  ever  be.” 

The  whole  dinner  passed  thus.  When  they  withdrew  into  the 
drawing-room,  the  canoness,  who  appeared  determined  to  amuse  her* 
self  with  Anzoleto’s  impertinence,  asked  him  to  sing  something.  He 
did  not  wait  to  be  asked  twice,  and  after  running  his  fingers  vigorously 
over  the  keys  of  the  old  groaning  piano,  he  set  up  one  of  those  ener- 
getic songs  with  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  enlivening  the  Count 
Zustiniani’s  private  suppers.  The  words  were  loose  enough,  but  the 
canoness  did  not  hear  them,  and  was  amused  by  the  vigor  and  energy 
of  the  singer.  Count  Christian  could  not  help  admiring  £he  fine 
voice  and  prodigious  facility  of  the  singer.  He  gave  himself  up  with 
perfect  artlessness  to  the  pleasure  of  listening,  and  when  the  first  air 
was  ended  asked  him  for  a second.  Albert,  who  sat  next  to  Consuelo, 
seemed  entirely  deaf,  and  did  not  utter  a word.  Anzoleto  fancied 
that  he  was  spiteful,  and  felt  himself  outdone  in  something.  He  for- 
got that  it  had  been  his  intention  to  dismay  his  hosts  by  his  musical 
improprieties,  and  moreover  said  that,  whether  for  their  innocence  or 
their  ignorance  of  the  dialect,  it  was  lost  time,  he  gave  himself  up  to 
the  pleasure  of  exciting  admirajtion,  and  sang  for  the  pleasure  of 
singing,  desiring  at  the  same  time  to  let  Consuelo  see  the  progress 
which  he  had  made.  He  had  in  truth  gained dn  that  order  of  musical 
power  which  nature  had  assigned  to  him.  His  voice  had  perhaps 
already  lost  some  of  its  youthful  freshness.  Orgies  and  dissipation 
had  robbed  it  of  its  velvet  softness ; but  he  was  more  perfectly  the 
master  of  its  effects,  and  more  skillful  in  overcoming  the  difficulties 
towards  which  his  taste  and  instinct  always  led  him.  He  sang  well, 
and  received  many  praises  from  Count  Christian  and  the  canoness, 
and  also  from  the  chaplain,  who  loved  above  all  things  fine  strokes, 
and  who  thought  Consuelo’s  by  far  too  simple  and  too  natural  to  be 
very  scientific.  “ You  said  that  he  had  no  talent,”  said  the  Count  to 
Consuelo.  “ You  are  either  too  severe,  or  too  modest  in  your  opinion 
of  your  pupil.  He  has  much ; and  I recognise  something  of  you  in 
his  singing.” 

The  good  Count  Christian  wished  to  efface  by  this  little  triumph  of 
Anzoleto,  some  of  the  mortification  which  his  style  of  conduct  had 
caused  his  pretended  sister.  He  laid  much  stress,  therefore,  on  the 
merits  of  the  singer;  and  the  latter,  who  was  by  far  too  fond 
of  praise  not  to  be  wearied  of  the  low  part  he  was  playing,  returned 
to  the  piano,  after  having  observed  that  Count  Albert  was  becoming 
more  and  more  pensive.  The  canoness,  who  had  a habit  of  falling 
asleep  sometimes  in  the  middle  of  long  pieces  of  music,  asked  for 
another  Venetian  song,  and  this  time  Anzoleto  made  a better  choice. 
He  knew  that  popular  airs  were  those  which  he  sang  the  best.  Consu- 
elo herself  had  not  the  piquante  accentuation  of  the  dialect  so  natur- 
ally and  so  characteristically  as  he,  himself  the  child  of  the  languages, 
and  par  excellence  a Swiss  singer. 

He  imitated,  therefore,  with  such  a grace,  and  such  a charm,  at  one 
e the  rude  and  frank  manner  of  the  fishermen  of  Istria,  and  at 
ther,  the  spiritual  and  careless  recklessness  of  the  Venetian  gon- 
: iiers,  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  listen  to  him,  and  look  at  him 
with  interest.  His  fine  face,  full  of  play  and  penetration,  took 
at  one  time  the  grave  and  proud  expression,  at  another  the  rollicking 
and  sportive  air,  of  those  or  of  these.  The  very  bad  taste  of  his  dress 
v ieh  could  be  recognised  as  Venetian  at  a league’s  distance,  added 


280  0 OSSDELO. 

tf  anything,  to  the  illusion,  and  93rved  his  personal  advantage*  Instead 
of  injuring  them,  as  it  would  have  done  on  any  other  occasion.  Con- 
•uelo,  who  was  at  first  cold  as  marble,  was  first  forced  to  assume 
indifference  and  abstraction,  for  emotion  gained  on  her  more  and 
more  every  moment.  She  deemed  to  see  all  Venice  again  in  Anzoleto, 
and  in  that  Venice  all  the  Auzoleto  of  old  days,  with  his  gayety,  his 
innocent  love,  and  his  boyish  haughtiness.  Her  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears,  and  the  merry  features  which  excited  all  the  rest  to  laughter, 
pierced  her  heart  with  the  deepest  tenderness. 

After  the  songs,  the  Count  Christian  asked  for  chaunts.  “ Oh ! if 
you  come  to  that,”  said  Anzoleto,  “I  only  know  those  which  are  sung 
at  Venice,  and  they  are  all  arranged  for  two  voices,  so  that  if  my  sis- 
ter does  not  choose  to  sing  with  me,  I shall  be  unable  to  gratify  your 
lordships.” 

Consuelo  was  immediately  implored  to  sing.  She  resisted  for  a long 
time,  although  she  felt  a strong  inclination  to  do  so.  But  at  last,  yield- 
ing to  the  entreaties  of  the  old  Christian,  who  had  set  himself  to  ef- 
fect a reconciliation  between  the  brother  and  sister  by  pretending  him- 
self to  be  reconciled,  she  took  her  seat  beside  Anzoleto,  and  began  to 
sing,  trembling  as  she  did  so,  one  of  those  long  canticles  arranged  in 
two  parts,  divided  into  strophes  of  three  verses  each,  which  are  heard 
in  Venice,  during  periods  of  devotion,  resounding  all  night  long 
around  the  Madonnas  at  the  crossings  of  the  streets.  Their  rhythm 
is  rather  animated  than  sad,  but  in  the  monotony  of  their  burthen, 
and  in  the  poetry  of  their  words,  having  the  impress  of  a half  pagax 
piety,  there  is  a sweet  melancholy  which  gains  on  the  hearer  by  de- 
grees, and  in  the  end  takes  full  possession  of  him. 

Consuelo  sang  in  a sweet  and  veiled  voice,  in  imitation  of  the  Ve- 
netian women,  and  Anzoleto  with  the  slightly  hoarse  and  guttural  ac- 
cent of  the  young  men  of  that  country.  At  the  same  time  he  repro- 
duced on  the  piano  forte  a feeble,  but  continuous  and  limpid  accom- 
paniment, which  reminded  his  companion  of  the  murmur  of  the  wa- 
ter against  the  marble  steps,  and  the  whisper  of  the  wind  among  the 
vine  branches.  She  thought  herself  in  Venice,  on  a fine  summer’s 
night,  alone  at  the  foot  of  one  of  those  chapels  in  the  open  air,  shel- 
tered by  arbors  of  the  vine,  and  illuminated  by  a wavering  lamp  re- 
flected in  the  gently  undulating  waters  of  the  canals.  Oh ! what  a 
contrast  between  the  ominous  and  agonizing  sensations  which  she 
had  experienced  that  very  morning  on  listening  to  Albert’s  violin  on 
the  margin  of  another  stream,  dark,  stagnant,  silent,  crowded  with 
phantoms,  and  that  vision  of  Venice,  with  its  fine  sky,  with  sweet  mel- 
odies, with  waves  of  azure,  showing  long  wakes  of  light  from  the  rapid- 
ly glancing  flambeaux  or  the  resplendent  stars.  This  magnifi- 
cent spectacle  Anzoleto  brought  back  to  her  mkid,  this  spectacle  in 
which  to  her  were  concentrated  all  the  ideas  of  liberty  and  of  life ; 
while  the  cavern,  the  fierce  and  fantastic  strains  of  old  time  Bohemia, 
the  bones  lighted  by  funereal  torches,  and  reflected  in  waters  filled, 
perchance,  with  the  same  lugubrious  relics,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
pale  and  ardent  face  of  the  ascetic  Albert,  the  thought  of  an  unknown 
world,  the  apparition  of  a symbolical  scene,  and  the  painful  sensation 
of  a fascination  which  she  could  not  explain,  were  all  too  much  for  the 
simple  and  peaceful  soul  of  Consuelo.  In  order  to  enter  into  that  re- 
gion of  abstract'" ideas,  it  required  her  to  make  as  great  an  effort  as  her 
Imagination  was  capable  of,  but  by  which  her  whole  nature  was  dis- 
turbed and  tortured  by  ir mysterious  sufferings  and  agonising  present r 


0OK  SUKLO, 


881 


tmmntM.  Bar  organization  was  ail  of  the  South,  southern,  and  denied 
itself  to  the  aostere  initiation  of  a mystic  love.  Albert  was  to  her  the 
genius  of  the  North,  deep,  puissant,  sometimes  sublime,  but  always  sad 
as  the  wind  of  icy  nights  anti  the  subterranean  roar  of  wintry  torrents. 
It  was  the  dreaming  and  investigating  soul  which  interrogates  and 
symbolizes  all  things,— the  nights  of  storm,  the  savage  harmonies  of  the 
forests,  and  the  half-effaced  inscriptions  of  antique  monuments.  An- 
zoleto,  on  the  contrary,  was  the  life  of  the  South,  the  matter  enkin- 
dled and  fertilised  by  the  great  sun,  by  the  broad  light,  drawing  its 
poetry  only  from  the  intensity  of  its  own  growth,  and  its  pride  from 
the  wealth  of  its  own  organic  principles.  It  was  the  life  of  sentiment, 
with  its  greed  of  enjoyment,  the  intellectual  carelessness  and  improv- 
idence of  the  artist,  a sort  of  ignorance  of,  or  indifference  to,  the  idea 
of  good  or  evil,  the  easily- won  happiness,  the  scorn  or  the  impotence 
of  reflection ; in  a word,  the  enemy  and  the  antagonist  of  the  ideal. 

Between  these  two  men,  each  of  whom  was  the  example  of  a type 
precisely  the  opposite  and  antipathic  of  the  other,  Consuelo  had  as 
little  life,  as  little  aptitude  for  energy  or  action  as  a body  severed  from 
its  soul.  She  loved  the  beautiful,  she  thirsted  for  the  ideal ; Albert 
offered  her  and  taught  her  these.  But  Albert,  checked  in  the  devel- 
opment of  his  genius,  by  something  diseased  in  his  intellect,  had  given 
himself  up  too  much  to  the  life  of  pure  intellect  He  knew  so  little 
of  necessity  and  of  real  life,  that  he  had  often  lost  the  faculty  of  feel- 
ing even  his  own  existence.  He  did  not  even  imagine  how'the  omin- 
ous ideas  and  objects  to  which  he  had  familiarised  himself  could, 
under  the  influence  of  love  and  virtue,  inspire  other  feelings  to  his 
promised  bride  than  the  enthusiasm  of  faith,  the  tenderness  of  bliss. 
He  had  not  foreseen,  nor  understood,  that  he  was  drawing  her  down 
into  an  atmosphere  in  which  she  must  die  as  a tropical  plant,  in  the 
twilight  of  the  polar  circles.  In  a word,  he  comprehended  not  the 
sort  of  violence  which  she  was  forced  to  put  upon  herself  in  order  to 
Identify  her  nature  with  his  own. 

Anzdleto,  on  the  contrary,  wounding  the  soul,  and  revolting  the  in- 
tellect of  Consuelo  at  all  points,  still  carried  in  his  expanded  breast, 
wide  open  to  the  breath  of  the  breezes  of  the  genial  South — all  that 
vital  air  which  the  Flower  of  Spain , as  he  was  wont  to  call  her  in  past 
time,  required  to  animate  her.  She  found  in  him  a whole  life  of  sen- 
suous contemplation,  animal,  ignorant,  and  delicious — a whole  world 
of  tranquillity,  carelessness,  physical  movements,  uprightness  without 
effort,  and  piety  without  reflection ; in  one  word,  almost  the  life  of  a 
bird.  But  is  there  not  something  of  the  bird  in  the  artist,  and  must 
there  be  also  some  slight  infusion  of  that  cup,  which  is  common  to  all 
other  beings,  in  man  himself,  in  order  that  he  may  be  complete,  and 
may  bring  to  the  best  advantage  the  treasures  of  his  intelligence  ? 

Consuelo  sung  in  a voice  still  more  and  more  tender  and  touching, 
giving  herself  up  with  vague  instinctive  feelings  to  the  distinctions, 
which  I have  drawn  for  her,  though  of  course,  too  much  at  length. 
Let  me  be  pardoned  for  it.  Had  I not  done  so  it  would  be  impossible 
to  conceive  by  what  fatal  fitfulness  of  sentiment  this  young  girl,  so 
chaste  and  so  sincere,  who  hated  the  treacherous  Anzoleto  a quarter 
of  an  hour  before,  and  with  good  reason,  could  forget  herself  to  such 
a point  as  to  listen  to  his  voice,  to  feel  the  waving  of  his  hair,  and  t L 
inhale  his  very  breath  with  a sensation  of  delight.  The  drawing-room 
was  too  large  to  be  at  any  time  very  well  lighted,  as  has  been  already 
mentioned,  and  the  day  was  fast  closing.  The  desk  of  the  piano  forte 


0 0 K 6 U £ L 0< 


288 

on  which  Anxoieto  had  spread  open  a large  folio  of  music,  conceded 
their  heads  from  those  who  were  sitting  at  a distance,  and  gradually 
their  heads  came  nearer  and  nearer  together.  Anzoleto  now  played 
the  accompaniment  with  one  hand  only,  the  other  arm  he  had  passed 
around  the  flexible  waist  of  his  formerly  betrothed , and  with  it  was 
drawing  her  closer  to  his  own  body.  Six  months  of  indignation  and 
of  grief  had  passed  away  like  a dream  from  the  mind  of  the  young 
girl.  She  fancied  herself  at  Yenice;  she  prayed  the  Madonna  to  bless 
her  love  for  the  handsome  lover  whom  her  mother  had  given  her,  and 
who  was  praying  beside  her,  hand  to  hand  and  heart  to  heart.  Albert 
had  left  the  room  without  her  perceiving  it,  and  the  air  became  light- 
er, the  twilight  softer  around  her.  Suddenly  at  the  end  of  one  of  the 
Btrophes  she  felt  the  burning  lips  of  her  first  lover  pressed  to  her  own. 
She  stifled  a cry  with  difficulty,  and  leaning  over  her  piano  forte,  burst 
Into  tears. 

At  this  moment  Count  Albert  re-entered  the  room,  heard  her  sobs, 
and  saw  the  insulting  joy  of  Anzoleto.  The  interruption  of  the  song 
by  the  emotions  of  the  young  artiste  did  not  so  much  surprise  any 
of  the  other  spectators  of  that  rapid  scene.  No  one  had  seen  the  kiss, 
and  every  one  supposed  that  the  recollections  of  her  childhood,  and 
her  love  of  the  art  had  moved  her-  to  tears. 

Count  Christian  was  indeed  somewhat  vexed  at  this  sensibility, 
which  was  an  evidence  of  so  much  attachment  for,  and  of  so  many 
regrets  connected'  with  the  very  things  the  sacrifice  of  which  he  re- 
quired. The  canoness  and  the  chaplain  were  delighted,  trusting  that 
the  sacrifice  could  now  never  be  accomplished.  Albert  had  not  as  yet 
thought  to  ask  himself  whether  the  Countess  Rudolstadt  would  be- 
come an  artiste  again,  or  must  cease  to  be  one.  He  would  have  ac- 
cepted anything,  permitted  anything,  nay,  even  demanded  anything, 
provided  that  she  could  be  happy  and  free,  whether  in  retirement,  in 
the  world,  or  on  the  stage,  at  her  own  option.  His  want  of  preju- 
dices and  selfishness  went  so  far  even  as  to  the  overlooking  of  the  sim- 
plest circumstances.  It  never,  therefore,  entered  his  mind  that  Con- 
suelo  would  impose  on  herself  any  sacrifices  on  his  account,  who  de- 
manded none.  But  though  he  overlooked  this  obvious  point,  he  yet 
saw  farther,  as  he  ever  did.  His  eye  pierced  to  the  very  heart  of  the 
tree,  and  his  hand  was  laid  on  the  worm  that  gnawed  it.  The  true  po- 
sition of  Anzoleto  with  regard  to  Consuelo,  the  real  object  which  he 
was  pursuing,  and  the  actual  sentiment  which  inspired  him,  were  re- 
vealed to  him  in  an  instant.  He  gazed  attentively  at  this  man,  to 
whom  he  had  in  every  respect  an  antipathy,  and  on  whom  he  had 
hitherto  avoided  to  cast" his  eyes,  because  he  would  not  hate  Con- 
suelo’s  brother.  He  now  saw  in  him  an  audacious,  desperate,  and 
dangerous  lover.  The  noble  Albert  thought  not  of  himself;  no  sus- 
picion, no  jealousy  entered  his  clear  mind.  The  danger  was  all  Con 
suelo’s ; for  at  a single  glance  of  his  deep  and  lustrous  eye,  that  man 
whose  feeble  sight  and  delicate  vision  could  not  brook  the  sun,  and 
could  scarce  distinguish  forms  and  colors,  read  the  very  bottom  { 
of  the  souls,  and  penetrated,  by  the  mysterious  power  of  divination , 
into  the  most  secret  thoughts  of  villains  and  impostors.  I will  not 
attempt  to  explain  by  any  natural  means  this  strange  gift  which  he 
certainly  at  times  possessed.  He  was  possessed  of  certain  faculties- 
not  yet  explored  to  the  bottom,  or  defined  by  science — utterly  incom- 
prehensible to  all  those  a:ound,  as  they  are  to  the  historian  who  now 
narrates  them,  and  who,  is  relation  to  matters  of  that  nature,  if  no 


C 0 N S V E L 0. 


289 


ttore  enlightened  after  the  lapse  of  a hundred  years,  than  were  the 
great  intellects  of  his  century.  Abert,  however,  when  he  saw  the 
rain  and  selfish  spirit  of  his  rival,  said  not  to  himself,  “ Lo ! my  ene- 
my I ” but  he  said,  “ Lo!  the  enemy  of  Consuelol  ” and  without  suf- 
fering his  discovery  to  become  apparent,  he  promised  himself  that  he 
Would  watch  over  her,  and  preserve  her. 


CHAPTER  LXL 

So  soon  as  Consuelo  found  a favorable  moment  she  went  out  of  the 
saloon,  and  passed  into  the  garden.  The  sun  had  set,  and  the  first 
stars  sparkled  white  and  serene  in  a slyr  still  rosy  in  the  west,  already 
black  to  the  eastward.  The  young  artist  sought  to  inspire  tranquillity 
of  mind  and  calmness  from  the  pure  cool  air  of  that  early  autumn 
evening.  Her  bosom  was  oppressed  with  voluptuous  languor,  and 
yet  she  felt  remorse  for  it  and  summoned  to  the  aid  of  her  will  all 
the  strength  of  her  spirit.  She  might  have  said  to  herself,  “ Can  1 
not  discover  whether  I love  or  hate  f ” She  trembled  as  if  she  had 
felt  her  courage  forsaking  her  at  this,  the  most  dangerous  crisis  of  her 
life;  and  for  the  first  time  she  did  not  find  within  herself  that  dis- 
tinctness of  the  first  impulse,  that  holy  confidence  in  her  intentions 
which  had  always  upheld  her  in  the  time  of  trial.  She  had  left  the 
drawing-room  in  order  to  escape  the  fascination  which  Anzoleto  ex- 
ercised over  her,  and  she  had  felt  at  the  same  moment  a vague  wish 
that  he  should  follow  her.  The  leaves  were  beginning  to  fall,  and 
fchen  the  hem  of  her  vestment  rustled  against  them,  she  fancied  that 
she  heard  liis  steps  behind  her,  and,  ready  to  fly,  not  daring  to  return, 
she  remained  rooted  to  the  place  where  she  stood,  as  it  were  by 
magic. 

Some  one  was  indeed  following  her,  but  without  daring  or  desiring 
to  be  discovered.  It  was  Albert.  A stranger  to  all  those  small  dis- 
simulations which  are  called  sQcial  proprieties,  and  feeling  elevated 
above  all  false  shame  by  the  greatness  of  his  love,  he  had  left  the 
apartment  a moment  after  her,  resolved  to  protect  her,  without  her 
own  knowledge,  and  to  prevent  her  intended  seducer  from  rejoining 
her.  Anzoleto  had  also  observed  his  artless  ardor,  without  being 
much  alarmed  by  it.  He  had  seen  too  clearly  the  agitation  of  Com 
suelo  not  to  look  upon  his  victory  as  certain  ; and,  thanks  to  the  au- 
dacious folly  which  many  easy  conquests  had  awakened  in  him,  he 
determined  no  longer  to  carry  it  with  a rough  hand,  no  longer  to  pro- 
voke his  intended  victim,  and  no  longer  to  surprise  the  family  by  his 
rudeness  of  demeanor.  “ It  is  no  longer  necessary  to  hurry  myself  so 
much,”  he  said.  “ Anger  may  give  her  strength.  An  air  of  grief 
and  dejection  will  make  her  forget  the  relics  of  her  anger  against  me. 
Her  spirit  is  proud,  let  us  attack  her  senses.  She  is  certainly  less 
strict  here  than  she  was  at  Venice;  she  has  become  civilized  in  these 
regions.  What  matters  it  whether  my  rival  be  happy  a aay  longer  or 
no?  To-morrow  she  shall  be  mine — perhaps  this  very  night.  We 
shall  soon  see*  Let  me  no  ;,  however,  drive  her  through  fear  into  any 
desperate  resolution.  She  has  not  betrayed  me  to  them.  Whether 
from  pity  or  fear,  she  has  not  defied  my  part  as  brother;  and 


290 


eoNsuitto. 


her  great  r el  a tiers,  in  spite  of  all  my  buffooneries,  seem  deter* 
mined  to  support  me  fer  love  of  her.  I will  change  my  tactics,  then 
I have  been  quicker  than  I hoped ; I san  afford  now  to  halt  awhile.” 

Count  Christian,  the  canoness,  and  the  chaplain  were,  therefore, 
much  surprised  at  seeing  him  suddenly  assume  excellent  manners,  a 
modest  tone,  and  a gentle  and  pleasing  demeanor.  He  had  the  tact, 
moreover,  to  complain  to  the  chaplain  of  a bad  headache,  and  to  add 
that  being  naturally  very  sober,  the  Hungary  wine,  the  strength  of 
which  he  had  not  anticipated  during  dinner,  had  risen  to  his  head. 
A moment  had  not  passed  before  this  confession  was  transmitted  in 
German  to  the  canoness  and  to  the  count,  who  accepted  that  species 
of  justification  with  ready  kindness.  Wenceslawa  was  at  first  less  in- 
dulgent, but  the  pains  which  the  comedian  took  to  please  her,  the 
respectful  praises  which  he  took  occasion  to  offer  her,  on  the  subject 
of  the  advantages  of  nobility,  the  admiration  which  he  displayed  for 
the  order  established  in  the  castle,  soon  disarmed  her  benevolent  soul, 
incapable  in  any  case  of  bearing  rancor.  She  listened  to  him  at  first 
indolently,  but  ended  by  conversing  with  him  with  interest,  and  by 
agreeing  with  her  brother,  that  he  was  an  excellent  and  charming 
young  man. 

When  Consuelo  returned  from  her  walk,  an  hour  had  elapsed,  dur- 
ing which  Anzoleto  had  not  lost  his  time.  He  had  in  fact  so  well  re- 
covered the  good  graces  of  the  family,  that  he  had  no  doubt  of  his 
ability  to  remain  as  many  days  in  the  castle  as  he  should  find,  neces- 
sary to  the  accomplishment  of  his  ends.  He  did  not  indeed  under- 
stand what  the  old  count  said  to  Consuelo  in  German,  but  he  guessed 
from  the  eyes  that  were  directed  towards  himself,  and  from  the  sur- 
prise and  embarrassment  of  the  young  girl  herself,  that  Count  Chris- 
tian had  been  praising  him  to  the  skies,  and  perhaps  scolding  her  a 
little  for  showing  so  little  interest  in  so  amiable  a brother. 

“Come,  signora,”  said  the  canoness,  who,  notwithstanding  her  little 
grudge  against'  La  Porporina,  could  not  refrain  from  wishing  her 
well,  andwno  thought,  moreover,  that  she  was  doing  an  act  of  duty, 
* you  sulk  with  your  brother  a little  at  dinner,  and  it  is  true  that 
at  the  time  be  deserved  it ; but  he  has  proved  himself  better  than  we 
at  first  expected  to  find  him.  He  loves  you  dearly,  and  has  said  a 
hundred  kind  things  of  you  to  us,  with  every  expression  of  affection, 
and  even  of  Vespect.  Be  not  then  more  severe  than  we.  I am  sure 
if  he  remembers  that  he  drank  a little  too  much  at  dinner,  he  is 
deeply  grieved  at  it,  especially  on  your  account.  Speak  to  him,  there- 
fore, and  do  not  be  cold  to  one  who  is  so  near  to  you  by  the  ties  of 
blood.  For  my  own  part,  although  my  brother,  the  Baron  Frederick, 
who  was  a great  torment  in  his  younger  days,  often  annoyed  me 
greatly,  I could  never  remain  at  variance  with  him  an  hour.” 

“ Consuelo,  who  dared  neither  to  confirm  nor  to  destroy  the  error 
of  the  good  lady,  stood  aghast  at  this  new  attack  on  the  part  of  An- 
aoleto,  all  whose  power  and  capacity  she  now  fully  appreciated. 

“ You  do  not  hear  what  my  sister  is  saying,”  said  Count  Christian 
to  the  young  man,  “ hut  I will  translate  it  to  you  in  two  minutes. 
She  is  blaming  Consuelo  for  assuming  too  much  of  the  airs  of  a little 
mother  over  you,  and  I am  sure  Consuelo  is  dying  to  make  her  peace 
with  you.  Embrace  one  another  then,  my  children.  Come,  young 
man,  it  is  for  you  to  take  the  1 rst  step,  and  if  you  have  at  any  time 
behaved  ill  to  her,  of  which  ill  you  now  repent,  I doubt  not  that  she 
will  pardon  you,  on  your  expressing  your  sorrow.” 


S»1 


Anaolefco  did  not  suffer  this  advice  to  be  given  to  him  twice  ore* 
fie  Mixed  the  trembling  hand  of  Consuelo,  who  did  not  dare  to  with- 
draw it  from  him.  “ Yes,”  said  he,  “ I have  committed  great  wrongs 
against  her,  and  I repent  the  more  bitterly  that  I have  found  that  aJL 
toy  endeavors  to  pardon  myself  against  her,  have  only  rendered  me 
more  unhappy  than  before.  She  knows  this  well,  and  if  she  had  not 
a heart  of  iron,  as  proud  as  strength  itself,  she  would  have  understood 
that  my  remorse  has  already  punished  me  enough.  Pardon  me  then, 
my  sister,  and  restore  me  your  love,  or  I will  instantly  go  forth,  and 
carry  my  despair,  my  solitude,  and  my  weariness  over  the  whole  world 
A stranger  everywhere,  without  stay  on  which  to  lean,  counsel  by 
which  to  rule  myself,  affection  which  to  return,  I shall  be  no  longer 
able  to  put  my  trust  in  God,  and  my  bewilderment  and  my  errors  will 
rest  upon  your  head.” 

This  homily  affected  the  count  deeply,  and  drew  tears  from  the 
eyes  of  the  good  canoness. 

“You  hear  what  he  says,  Porporina,”  she  exclaimed,  u and  It  is  all 
very  good,  and  very  true.  Monsieur  chaplain,  you  ought  to  command 
Consuelo,  in  the  name  of  holy  religion,  to  be  reconciled  with  her 
brother.” 

The  chaplain  was  now  about  to  interfere;  but  Anzoleto  did  not 
wait  for  discourse,  but  seizing  Consuelo  in  his  arms,  in  spite  of  her 
resistance  and  her  fears,  embraced  her  passionately  under  the  very 
beard  of  the  chaplain,  to  the  great  edification  of  the  bystanders. 
Consuelo,  entirely  shocked  by  this  last  piece  of  impudent  imposture, 
resolved  to  endure  it  no  longer.  “ Hold  I ” she  cried,  “ Monsieur  le 
Comte ! Listen  to  me ! ” she  was  about  to  reveal  the  whole  fraud, 
when  Albert  entered  the  room.  At  the  instant  the  idea  of  Zdenko 
returned  to  freeze  up  with  terror  her  soul,  which  was  on  the  point  of 
bursting  its  bonds.  This  implacable  protector  of  Consuelo  might 
well  determine  to  free  her  from  this  persecutor  without  any  disturb- 
ance, or  any  deliberation,  should  she  once  invoke  his  protection.  She 
turned  pale,  cast  a glance  of  agonising  reproach  on  Anzoleto,  and  the 
words  expired  on  her  tongue.  As  the  clock  struck  seven,  they  sat 
down  to  table  for  supper.  If  the  idea  of  these  frequent  meals  takes 
away  the  appetite  of  my  fair  and  delicate  readers,  I will  merely  ob- 
serve that  it  was  not  at  the  time,  or  in  the  country  of  which  I write, 
to  abstain  from  eating.  I believe  I have  said  so  already.  At  Riesen- 
berg  they  ate  plentifully,  slowly,  and  often ; indeed,  almost  one  half 
the  day  was  passed  at  table ; and  I confess  that,  to  Consuelo,  accus- 
tomed as  she  had  been  from  childhood  upward  to  live  daily  on  a few 
spoonsful  of  boiled  rice,  these  Homeric  repasts  did  appear  insuffer- 
ably long.  For  the  first  time,  she  knew  not  whether  this  supper  last- 
ed an  hour,  an  instant,  or  a century.  She  had  no  more  actual  life  in 
her  system  than  Albert  when  he  was  in  his  solitary  cave.  She  almost 
fancied  she  was  drunken  with  wine,  so  strangely  did  shame,  self- 
reproach,  love,  and  terror,  agitate  her  whole  being.  She  ate  not,  she 
saw  not,  she  heard  not  aught  that  passed  around  her.  Astounded,  as 
one  who  feels  himself  rolling  over  the  brink  of  a precipice,  and  who 
sees  the  feeble  branches  which  alone  intercept  his  fall,  breaking  under 
his  grasp,  she  looked  into  the  abyss  which  lay  before  her,  and  her 
brain  swam  with  a wild  vertigo. 

Anzoleto  sat  beside  her ; he  toi  :ched  her  garment,  he  pressed  his 
olbow  with  convulsive  movements  against  her  elbow — his  foot  against 
l*r  toot  In  his  eagerness  to  help  her,  he  met  her  hands  with  bis 


292 


CON8t7BL6« 


own,  and  held  them  for  a second  in  his  clasp,  buf  that  rapid  and  4ety 
touch  contained  a whole  century  of  voluptuous  pleasure.  He  utter- 
ed to  her,  aside,  words  which  seemed  to  choke,  darted  at  her  glance* 
which  seemed  to  drown.  He  took  advantage  of  opportunities,  brief 
as  lightning,  to  exchange  glances  with  her,  and  to  touch  that  portion 
of  the  crystal  which  her  lips  had  touched  'with  his  own.  And  all  the 
time  he  knew  that  while  to  her  he  was  all  fire,  he  was  all  ice  to  the 
rest  of  the  company.  He  conducted  himself  admirably,  spoke  elo- 
quently, treated  the  chaplain  with  respect,  offered  him  the  choicest 
morsels  of  the  joints,  which  he  took  care  to  carve  with  the  dexterity 
and  grace  of  a guest  long  accustomed  to  good  cheer.  He  had  already 
observed  that  the  holy  man  was  a gourmand,  and  that  his  shyness  in- 
dicted considerable  privations  on  him  in  this  respect ; and  the  priest 
found  himself  so  well  cared  for,  and  his  preferences  so  justly  observed, 
that  he  began  to  wish  that  this  new  and  dexterous  carver  could  be 
domesticated  for  life  in  the  Giants’  Castle. 

It  was  observed  that  Anzoleto  drank  nothing  but  water,  and  when 
the  chaplain,  desirous  of  returning  his  good  offices,  asked  him  to  take 
wine,  he  replied  aloud,  so  that  all  might  hear  him,  “ A thousand 
thanks!  I will  take  no  more.  Your  good  wine  is  a traitor,  by  whose 
aid  a while  since  I sought  to  forget  my  griefs ; now  I have  no  griefs 
more,  and  return  to  water,  my  habitual  drink,  and  my  loyal  friend.” 

They  prolonged  the  evening  to  a later  hour  than  usual.  Anzoleto 
sang  again,  and  now  he  sang  alone  for  the  ears  of  Consuelo.  He 
chose  the  favorite  airs  of  the  old  composers,  which  she  had  taught 
him  herself;  and  he  sang  them  with  all  the  care,  all  the  purity  of 
taste,  and  the  delicacy  of  intuition  which  she  had  been  wont  to  re- 
quire of  him.  By  doing  so  He  was  recalling  to  her  mind  her  dearest 
memories,  both  of  her  love  and  her  art. 

At  the  moment  when  they  were  about  to  separate  for  the  night,  he 
took  An  opportunity  to  say  to  her  in  a whisper,  “ I know  which  is 
your  apartment.  They  have  given  me  one  on  the  same  gallery.  ' At 
midnight  I shall  be  at  the  door  on  my  knees,  and  there  I shall  remain 
prostrate  until  the  break  of  day.  Do  not  refuse  to  listen  to  me  for  a 
moment.  I do  not  desire  to  win  your  love  again,  I do  not  deserve  it. 
I know  that  you  can  love  me  no  longer,  that  another  is  the  happy 
man,  and  that  I must  depart.  I shall  depart  with  death  in  my  heart, 
And  the  relics  of  my  life  are  vowed  to  the  muses.  But  do  not  drive 
me  hence  without  saying  farewell,  without  uttering  one  word  of  pity. 
If  you  refuse  me  I will  go  hence  at  break  of  day,  and  that  will  be  the 
last  of  me  forever.” 

“ Speak  not  thus,  Anzoleto.  We  may  well,  as  we  ought  to  do,  part 
here.  Say  farewell  to  each  other  for  ever.  I pardon  you — I wish 
you ” 

u A pleasant  journey,  doubtless ! ” he  replied,  ironically ; but  then, 
immediately  resuming  his  hypocritical  tone — “ You  are  pitiless,”  he 
said,  “ Consuelo.  You  wish  me  to  be  destroyed  utterly ; you  wish 
that  no  last  remnant  of  good,  no  single  good  sentiment,  no  touch  of 
better  hope  should  remain  to  me.  What  fear  you?  Have  I not 
proved  to  you  a hundred  times  my  respect  and  the  purity  of  my  love  ? 
When  one  loves  hopelessly  is  not  he  a slave,  and  do  not  you  know  the 
magical  words  which  tames  and  fetters  me?  In  the  name  of  Heaven! 
.if  you  are  not  the  mistress  of  this  man  whom  you  are  about  to  marry, 
if  he  is  not  the  partner  of  your  chamber,  and  the  inevitable  compel* 
ion  of  all  your  nights ” 


consuelo.  293 

is  not  so,  he  never  was  so!”  exclaimed  Consuelo,  with  the 
proud  accent  of  injured  innocence. 

She  had  done  better  to  suppress  that  impulse  of  well-founded  pride, 
which  was,  however,  too  mean  for  the  occasion.  Anzoleto  was  net  a 
coward,  but  he  loved  life,  and  had  he  thought  to  find  a resolute  de- 
fender in  Consuelo ’s  chamber,  he' would  have  remained  very  quietly 
in  his  own.  The  accent  of  truthfulness,  however,  with  which  the 
young  girl  spoke,  entirely  emboldened  him. 

“ In  that  count,”  said  he,  “ I shall  not  endanger  your  prospect.  1 
will  be  so  prudent,  so  careful.  I will  tread  so  lightly,  and  speak  so 
low,  that  your  reputation  shall  not  be  stained.  Moreover,  am  I not 
your  brother,  and  what  is  there  extraordinary  in  my  coming  to  take 
leave  of  you,  when  I set  forth  before  daybreak  ? ” 

“No,  no;  do  not  cornel”  cried  Consuelo,  terrified;  “Count 
Albert’s  apartment  is  very  near  to  mine ; perhaps  he  has  already  di- 
vined everything,  Anzoleto,  if  you  so  expose  yourself,  I will  not  answer 
for  your  life ; I speak  seriously  to  you,  and  my  blood  freezes  in  my 
veins.” 

And  in  truth,  Anzoleto  felt  that  her  hand,  which  he  held  within 
his  own,  had  become  as  cold  as  marble. 

“ If  you  raise  discussions,  if  you  keep  me  parleying  at  the  door,  you 
will  expose  my  life,”  he  said,  with  a smile;  “but  if  your  door  be 
open,  and  our  kisses  silent,  you  risk  nothing.  Kemember  how  many 
nights  we  have  spent  together  at  the  Corte  Minelli  without  awaken- 
ing one  of  the  numerous  neighbors.  As  to  me,  if  there  be  no  ob- 
stacle but  the  jealousy  of  the  count,  and  no  other  danger  than 
death ” 

At  this  moment  Consuelo  saw  the  eye  of  Count  Albert,  which  was 
in  general  so  vague  and  wandering,  assume  a clear  and  piercing  depth, 
as  it  was  fixed  upon  Anzoleto.  He  could  not  hear  what  was  pass- 
ing, but  he  seemed  to  read  it  with  his  eyes.  She  withdrew  her  hand 
from  that  of  Anzoleto,  saying,  in  a broken  voice,  “ Ah,  if  you  love  me, 
brave  not  the  ire  of  that  terrible  man  1 ” 

“ Is  it  for  yourself  that  you  are  afraid  ? ” asked  Anzoleto. 

“ No.  But  for  every  one  who  approaches  me  with  threats.” 

“ And  for  every  one,  doubtless,  who  adores  you.  Well,  be  it  so.  To 
die  at  your  feet,  to  die  before  your  eyes  were  all  that  I ask.  I will  be 
at  your  door  at  midnight : resist  me,  and  you  will  but  accelerate  my 
doom.” 

“ You  set  off  to-morrow,  and  do  you  take  no  leave  of  any  person?  ” 
asked  Consuelo,  who  saw  him  bow  to  the  count  and  the  canoness, 
without  saying  anything  of  his  departure. 

“ Of  no  one,”  he  replied;  “ for  they  would  seek  to  detain  me,  and 
feeling  everything  conspiring  to  prolong  my  agony,  I should  yield. 
You  will  mak3  my  excuses  and  adieux  to  them.  Orders  are  given  to 
my  guide  to  have  the  horses  ready  at  four  in  the  morning.” 

This  last  assertion  was  scarcely  the  whole  truth.  The  singular  g.an- 
ces  which  Albert  had  cast  on  him  for  several  hours  had  not  escaped 
Anzoleto’s  penetration.  He  had  resolved  to  dare  all  things,  but  he 
held  himself  ready  for  flight  in  case  of  any  untoward  circumstance. 
His  horses  were  already  saddled  in  the  stable,  and  his  guide  was  under 
orders  not  to  go  to  bed. 

When  she  returned  to  her  own  apartment,  Consuelo  was  in  a state 
of  real  consternation.  She  was  determined  not  to  receive  Anzoleto, 
wad  at  the  same  time  she  feared  lest  he  should  be  prevented  com  inf 


«M9NI  UILO, 


IN 

New  that  double  sentiment,  false  vet  Insurmountable,  tormented  bet 
mind,  and  arrayed  her  bean  against  her  conscience.  Never  had  she 
felt  so  unhappy,  so  unprotected,  so  utterly  alone  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  “ Oh,  Porpora,  my  master,  where  art  thou?”  she  cried. 
* Thou  alone  art  able  to  deliver  me;  thou  alone  knowest  my  sorrows, 
and  the  perils  into  which  I have  fallen.  Thou,  alone,  art  harsh,  stern, 
and  distrustful,  as  a father  should  be,  in  order  to  rescue  me  from  this 
abyss  into  which  I am  falling!  But  have  I no  friends  around  me? 
Have  not  I a father  in  Count  Christian  ? Have  I not  a mother  in  the 
canoness,  if  I had  but  the  courage  to  brave  her  prejudices  and  address 
myself  to  her  heart?  And  is  not  Albert,  on  the  instant,  my  support, 
my  brother,  my  husband,  if  I consent  to  speak  but  one  word  ? Oh, 
yes ! He  it  is  that  should  be  my  savior,  yet  1 fear  and  repel  him ! And 
yet  I must  go  and  find  them  all  three,”  she  continued,  rising  and  walk- 
ing rapidly  to  and  fro.  “ I must  attach  myself  to  them,  I must  throw 
myself  into  their  protecting  arms,  shelter  myself  under  the  wings  of 
these  my  guardian  angels.  Rest,  dignity,  and  honor  dwell  with  them ; 
misery  and  despair  await  me  in  the  person  of  Anzoleto ! Oh,  yes — I 
must  go  and  confess  to  them  all  that  has  passed  during  this  hideous 
day.  I must  attach  myself  to  them  by  an  oath,  I must  say  aloud  that 
irrevocable  yes , which  shall  set  an  invincible  barrier  between  myself 
and  my  torturer.  I will  go  and  do  so.” 

And  then,  instead  of  going,  she  fell  back  into  her  chair,  half  faint- 
ing, *ind  wept  painfully  over  her  departed  peace  and  her  broken 
energy. 

“ And  yet,”  she  continued,  “ how  can  I tell  them  yet  another  false- 
hood ? How  can  I offer  to  them  a girl  half  bewildered,  a wife  half 
faithless?  For  in  my  heart  I am  such,  and  the  mouth  which  should 
swear  eternal  fidelity  to  one  man  is  newly  soiled  by  the  kiss  of 
another;  and  my  heart  throbs  wildly  at  the  recollection!  Ah!  my 
very  love  for  the  base  Anzoleto  is  changed  no  less  than  he.  It  is  no 
longer  that  tranquil  and  holy  affection  with  which  I slept  so  happily 
under  the  shelter  of  those  wings  which  my  mother  outspread  from 
the  overarching  skies  to  Shield  me.  It  is  a fascination  base  and  un- 
true as  the  being  who  inspires  it.  There  is  no  longer  anything  great 
or  true  in  my  soul.  False  to  myself  this  morning,  I have  been  false 
to  others,  and  how  shall  I avoid  being  false  to  them  forever?  Present 
or  absent,  Anzoleto  will  be  ever  before  my  eyes ; the  mere  thought  of 
being  separated  from  him  to-morrow  fills  me  with  anguish ; and  on 
the  bosom  of  another  it  is  of  him  alone  that  I should  dream.  What 
shall  I do — what  will  become  of  me  ? ” 

The  hour  approached  with  hideous  rapidity,  and  yet  how  slowly. 
“ I will  see  him,”  she  said  again.  “ I will  tell  him  that  I hate  him, 
that  I despise  him,  that  I will  see  him  no  more.  And  yet,  no;  lam 
again  deceiving  myself:  I should  not  tell  him  so,  or  if  I did,  it  would 
be  only  to  retract  a moment  later.  I am  no  longer  sure  now  of  my 
own  virtue.  He  believes  not  in  it,  he  will  respect  me  no  longer,  and 
I — I can  no  longer  put  trust  in  myself— -no  longer  put  trust  in  any- 
thing. I shall  betray  myself  through  terror  yet,  more  than  through 
weakness.  Oh,  rather  let  me  die  than  thus  fall  from  my  own  esteem, 
and  let  the  cunning  and  the  profligacy  of  another  triumph  over  the 
holy  instincts  and  the  noble  interests  with  which  my  Creator  framed 
me.” 

She  went  to  the  window,  and  for  a time  felt  determined  on  casting 
feertelf  headlong,  to  escape  the  death  of  infamy  into  which  she  imag 


C 0 N S U E L O. 


Ined  herseVf  on  the  point  of  falling.  As  she  struggled  against  that 
awful  temptation,  slj  3 considered  the  various  means  of  safety  which 
were  left;  to  her  So  far  as  material  means,  she  lacked  none  for  she 
had  begun  by  bolting  the  door  by  which  Anzoleto  might  have  gained 
admittance;  but  she  only  half  knew  that  cold  and  selfish  individual, 
and  having  seen  proofs  of  his  physical  courage,  she  knew  not  that  he 
was  utterly  destitute  of  the  moral  courage  which  leads  men  to  run 
the  risk  of  death  for  the  indulgence  of  their  passions.  She  thought 
that  he  would  still  dare  to  come  to  her  door,  that  he  would  insist  on 
being  heard,  that  he  would  make  a noise,  and  she  knew  also  that  a 
breath  would  awaken  Albert.  Adjoining  to  her  apartment  there  was 
a closet,  containing  a secret  stair,  as  there  was  to  almost  every  apart- 
ment in  the  castle;  but  that  staircase  had  its  egress  on  the  lower 
floor,  within  the  chamber  of  the  canoness.  It  was  the  only  refuge 
she  could  think  of  from  the  impudent  audacity  of  Anzoleto ; and  in 
order  to  have  it  opened  to  her,  it  would  be  necessary  to  confess  every- 
thing, even  beforehand,  in  order  to  prevent  an  outcry  and  bustle, 
which,  if  suddenly  alarmed,  the  good  Wenceslawa  would  be  very 
'.ikely  to  protract.  Again,  there  was  the  garden,  but  if  Anzoleto, 
who  seemed  to  have  made  himself  acquainted  with  every  part  of  the 
castle,  should  himself  repair  thither,  that  were  but  to  accelerate  her 
ruin. 

While  she  thus  pondered,  she  saw  from  the  window  of  her  closet, 
which  looked  out  upon  the  stable-yard,  that  there  was  a light  in  the 
stables ; and  she  observed  a man  going  in  and  out  of  the  stables,  with- 
out alarming  any  of  the  other  servants,  and  appearing  to  be  engaged 
in  preparations  for  departure. . She  recognised  him  by  his  gar.b  as  Anzo- 
leto’s  guide,  harnessing  his  horses  agreeably  to  his  instructions ; and 
shd  also  observed  a light  in  the  drawbridge-keeper’s  lodge,  and 
thought  rightly  enough  that  he  had  been  informed  by  the  guide  of 
their  intended  departure,  the  hour  of  which  was  not  as  yet  deter- 
mined, While  she  observed  these  details,  and  abandoned  herself  to  a 
thousand  conjectures,  a thousand  projects,  Consuelo  fell  upon  a very 
strange,  and  no  less  rash  device.  But  as  it  offered  her  an  intermedi- 
ate resource  between  the  two  extreme  counsels  that  lay  before  her, 
and  opened  a new  view  of  the  limits  of  her  future  life,  she  regarded  it 
as  an  actual  inspiration  of  Heaven.  She  had  no  time  to  examine 
means  at  her  leisure,  and  reflect  on  their  consequences.  Some  ap- 
peared to  present  themselves  to  her  as  the  effects  of  a providential 
chance,  others,  she  thought,  might  easily  be  turned  against  herself* 
She  began  then  very  hastily  to  write  as  follows,  for  the  castle  clock 
was  already  striking  eleven.” 

u Albert*— I am  compelled  to  depart  I esteem  you  with  my  whole 
soul, as  you  well  know;  but  there  is  in  my  very  existence,  contra- 
dictory, rebellious,  painful  principles,  which  I can  explain  neither  to 
you  nor  to  myself.  If  I could  see  you  at  this  moment,  I should  tell 
you  that  I put  my  trust  in  you,  that  I surrender  to  you  the  care  of 
my  future  life,  that  I consent  to  become  your  wife.  Perhaps  I should 
tell  you  that  I wish  to  become  so.  And  yet  I should  mislead  you,  or 
take  a rash  oath ; for  my  heart  is  not  sufficiently  purified  of  its  ancient 
love  to  belong  to  you,  without  apprehension,  and  to  deserve  yours 
without  remorse.  I fly,  I go  to  Vienna  to  meet  Porpora,  or  to  wait 
his  coming,  since  he  must  needs  arrive  in  a few  days,  as  his  letter  to 
your  father  recently  anno  meed.  I swear  to  you,  that  my  otyect  in 


SM 


COK8UBLO. 


seeking  him  out  is  to  find  In  his  presence  hatred  and  oblivion  of  the 

past,  and  the  hope  of  a futurity  of  which,  believe  me,  you  are  the 
corner-stone.  Follow  me  not,  I forbid  you,  in  the  name  of  that  fiito* 
rity  Which  your  impatience  would  compromise,  perchance  destroy. 
Await  me,  and  keep  the  oath  you  made  me,  that  you  would  not 

return  without  me  to , you  understand  me  1 Have  trust  in  me,  l 

command  you,  for  I depart  with  the  holy  hope  of  returning  to  you,  or 
summoning  you  to  me  ere  long.  At  this  moment  INam  in  a hideous 
dream ; I fancy  that  were  I by  pyself  I should  awaken  worthy  of  yot- 
I do  not  desire  that  my  brother  should  follow  me;  I intend  to  deceive 
him,  and  suffer  him  to  take  a road  different  from  that  which  I shall 
follow.  By  all  that  you  hold  dearest  in  the  world,  throw  no  obstacles 
in  the  way  of  my  undertaking,  and  believe  me  to  be  sincere.  It  is 
thus  that  I shall  learn  whether  you  truly  love  me,  and  whether  I may, 
without  blushing,  sacrifice  my  poverty  to  your  wealth,  my  obscurity 
to  your  rank,  my  ignorance  to  the  science  of  your  intellect.  To  prove 
to  you  that  I do  not  go  without  the  intention  to  return,  will  say  not, 
4 Fare-you-well,  Albert: 1 but 4 we  shall  meet  again ; ’ and  I charge  you 
with  the  task  of  rendering  your  dear  aunt  propitious  to  our  union, 
and  of  preserving  to  me  the  favor  of  your  father,  the  best  and  most 
respectable  of  men.  Tell  him  the  true  state  of  all  this.  I will  write 
to  you  from  Vienna.” 

The  hope  of  convincing  and  tranquillizing  a man  so  much  in  love 
as  Albert,  by  such  a letter,  was  rash,  undoubtedly,  but  not  unreason- 
able. Consuelo  felt,  while  she  was  writing  to  him,  the  energy  of  his 
will  and  the  uprightness  of  his  character.  All  that  she  wrote  to  him 
she  indeed  thought ; all  that  she  declared  her  intention  of  doing,  she 
intended  to  do.  She  had  faith  in  the  extraordinary  penetration  of 
Albert,  almost,  in  his  second  sight;  she  did  not  believe  herself  capable 
of  deceiving  him;  she  felt  certain  that  he  would  believe  her,  and  that, 
taking  his  character  into  consideration,  he  would  punctually  obey 
her.  At  this  moment  she  judged  of  circumstances,  and  of  Albert 
himself,  as  highly  as  he  would  have  done.  After  folding  her  letter, 
without  sealing  it,  she  threw  her  travelling  cloak  over  her  shoulders, 
wrapped  her  head  in  a thick  black  veil,  took  with  her  what  little 
money  she  possessed,  and  a slender  change  of  linen,  and  going  down 
stairs  on  tip-toe,  with  incredible  precaution  passed  along  the  lower 
floors,  reached  Count  Christian/s  apartment,  introduced  herself  even 
into  his  oratory,  whither  she  knew  he  came  at  six  o’clock  every  morn- 
ing. Here  she  laid  the  letter  on  the  desk  whereon  he  always  placed 
his  book,  before  kneeling  on  the  ground;  and  then  passing  onward  to 
the  great  court,  without  awakening  any  one,  walked  directly  to  the 
stables. 

The  guide,  who  was  not  in  the  npost  comfortable  state  of  mind  at 
finding  himself  alone  at  the  dead  of  night  in  the  great  castle,  with  all 
the  world  sleeping  like  stones  around  him,  was  very  much  terrified  at 
first,  on  seeing  this  black  woman  advance  upon  him  like  a spectre. 
He  retreated  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  stable  without  daring  either 
to  cry  out  or  to  address  her.  That  was  precisely  what  Consuelo  de- 
sired ; as  soon  as  she  saw  that  she  was  out  of  eyesight  and  earshot — 
she  was  aware,  by  the  way,  that  neither  Albert’s  nor  Anzoleto’s  win- 
dows looked  out  upon  the  court — she  said  to  him,  44  I am  the  sister  o f 
the  young  man  whom  you  guided  hither  this  morning.  He  is  about 
to  carry  me  off.  We  have  just  decided  on  it  together  Put  a lady’s 


CONSCELO. 


29? 

•addle  on  my  horse — there  are  several  here.  Follow  me  to  TusUt 
without  saying  a single  word,  and  without  taking  a single  step  that 
the  people  of  the  castle  shall  be  able  to  hear.  You  shall  be  paid 
double.  Why  do  you  look  astonished  ? Make  haste.  So  soon  as  you 
•hall  arrived  at  that  town,  you  will  come  back  here  with  the  same 
horses  to  fetch  my  brother.” 

The  guide  shook  his  head. 

“ You  shall  be  paid  treble.” 

The  guide  made  a sign  that  he  consented. 

“ And  you  shall  bring  him  on  at  full  speed  to  Tusta,  where  I will 
await  you  1 ” 

The  guide  shook  his  head. 

“ You  shall  have  four  times  as  much,  the  last,  as  the  first  time.” 

The  guide  obeyed.  In  a moment  the  horse  which  Consuelo  was  to 
ride  was  equipped  with  a lady’s  saddle.  “ Give  me  your  hat,  and 
throw  your  cloak  over  mine.  It  is  but  for  the  moment.” 

“ I understand ; to  deceive  the  porter;  that  is  easy  enough.  You 
are  not  the  first  young  lady  I have  helped  to  carry  off.  Your  lover 
will  pay  well  for  it — for  all  you  are  his  sister,”  he  added  with  a know 
ing  expression. 

“ You  will  be  well  paid  by  me,  in  the  first  instance.  Silence!  Aiw 
you  ready  ? ” 

“ I am  on  horseback.  Go  on  before  me,  and  make  them  lower  the 
draw-bridge.” 

They  passed  it  at  a foot’s  pace,  made  a circuit,  in  order  to  avoid 
riding  under  the  castle  walls,  and  in  a quarter  of  an  hour  reached  the 
great  high  road.  Consuelo  had  never  in  her  life  been  on  horseback 
before.  Fortunately,  though  strong  and  active,  the  animal  on  which. 
Bhe  was  mounted  was  good-tempered.  His  master  animated  him  by 
chirrupping,  and  he  fell  into  a firm  and  steady  gallop,  which,  through 
woods  and  over  heath-clad  moors,  brought  our  heroine  to  her  journey’* 
end  within  two  hours.  Consuelo  kept  hold  of  her  bridle,  and  dis- 
mounted at  the  entrance  of  the  town. 

“ I do  not  wi ah  to  be  seen  here,”  said  she  to  the  guide,  as  she  hand- 
ed him  the  price  agreed  upon  ^br  herself  and  Anzoleto.  “ I will  pass 
through  the  town  on  foot,  and  will  procure  from  some  people  whom 
I know,  a carriage  to  convey  me  on  the  route  toward  Prague.  I 
shall  travel  with  all  speed,  in  order  to  get  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
country  where  my  face  is  known,  before  daylight.  As  soon  as  it  is 
day,  I shall  stop  and  wait  for  my  brother.” 

“ But  where  will  you  do  so  ? ” 

“ I cannot  say.  But  tell  him  that  it  will  be  at  a post-house.  Lei 
him  ask  no  questions  until  he  is  thirty  miles  from  this  place,  and  then 
let  him  ask  everywhere  for  Madame  Wolf.  It  is  the  first  name  I can 
think  of;  do  not  forget  it.  There  is  but  one  road  to  Prague,  la 
there  ? ” 

“ Only  one,  until  you ” 

“ That  is  well.  Stop  in  the  suburbs  to  feed  your  horses,  and  t-y  to 
hinder  them  from  seeing  the  woman’s  saddle-throw  your  cloak  over 
it,  and  set  out  again.  WTait — one  word  more.  Tell  my  brother  no! 
to  hesitate,  but  to  steal  away  without  being  seen ; his  life  U $n  danger 
in  the  castle.” 

“ Heaven  go  with  you,  pretty  lady,”  replied  the  gulda,  who  had 
found  time  to  roll  the  money  which  he  had  received,  between  hia 
fingers,  and  to  estimate  its  value.  “ If  my  pooi  horses  be  used  up  by 
% I am  gjad  that  I have  been  of  service  to  yon.” 


C O N 8 t ifi  i O. 


Having  given  his  horses  some  oats,  and  administered  to  himself  a 
copious  draught  of  hydromel,  as  he  said,  in  order  to  open  his  eye*, 
the  guide  took  his  road  back  toward  Kiesenberg,  without  especially 
hurrying  himself,  as  Consuelo  had  hoped  and  foreseen,  even  at  the 
very  time  when  she  was  urging  him  to  use  all  possible  despatch ; in- 
volving his  brain  as  he  went  in  every  sort  of  wild  conjecture  concern- 
ing the  romantic  adventure  in  which  he  had  been  engaged,  and  half 
inclined  to  believe  that  his  late  travelling  companion  had  been  no 
other  than  the  far-famed  Castle  Ghost,  the  black  phantom  of  the 
Schreckenstein. 


CHAPTER  LXIL 

Anzoleto  had  not  failed  to  rise  at  midnight,  to  take  his  stiletto, 
perfume  himself,  and  put  out  his  light.  But  when  he  thought  to  open 
his  door  without  making  the  least  noise — for  he  already  remarked 
that  the  lock  was  easy,  and  played  gently — he  was  astonished  to  find 
that  the  key  was  not  susceptible  of  the  slightest  movement.  He 
strained  his  fingers,  and  exerted  all  his  strength  in  vain,  even  at  the 
risk  of  awaking  every  one  in  the  house,  by  shaking  the  door  too  hard. 
All  was  useless.  There  was  no  other  issue  to  his  room ; the  window 
looked  over  the  gardens  from  a height  of  fifty  feet,  the  walls  perfectly 
bare  and  unscaleable.  The  very  thought  of  the  attempt  made  him 
dizzy. 

“ This  is  not  the  work  of  chance,”  said  Anzoleto,  after  having 
again  vainly  attempted  to  open  the  door.  “ Whether  it  be  Consuelo 
— and  that  would  be  a good  symptom,  for  fear  betrays  the  conscious- 
ness of  weakness  — or  Albert,  they  shall  pay  me  for  it,  both  at  the 
same  time.” 

He  endeavored  thereupon  to  go  to  sleep  again ; but  spite  prevented 
him,  and  perhaps  also  a certain  sentiment  not  far  removed  from  fear. 
If  Albert  was  the  author  of  this  precaution,  he  alone  of  all  in  the 
house,  had  not  been  taken  in  by  his  pretended  relationship  with  Con- 
suelo. She,  moreover,  had  been  really  alarmed  when  she  warned 
him  to  beware  of  that  terrible  man.  Anzoleto  endeavored  vainly  to 
argue  himself  into  the  belief  that,  being  mad,  the  young  count  had 
no  power  of  connecting  his  ideas,  or  that,  being  of  so  high  birth,  he 
would  decline,  in  accordance  with  the  prejudices  of  the  time,  to  en- 
gage with  an  acto.r  in  an  affair  of  honor.  But  all  these  arguments 
failed  to  reassure  him,  for  Albert,  if  insane  at  all,  had  shown  himself 
perfectly  tranquil,  and  in  all  respects  master  of  himself;  and  as  to 
his  prejudices,  they  could  not  be  very  deeply  rooted,  if  he  could  think 
of  marrying  an  actress.  Anzoleto,  therefore  began  to  fear  seriously 
that  he  should  have  a quarrel  to  settle  with  him  before  his  departure, 
and  that  some  bad  business  would  occur,  ending  in  a clear  loss.  This 
termination  he  regarded,  however,  as  disgraceful  rather  than  danger- 
ous; for  he  had  learned  to  handle  th&  sword,  and  flattered  himself 
that  he  could  hold  his  own  against  any  man,  noble  or  not.  Neverthe- 
less, he  felt  himself  ill  at  ease,  and  he  did  not  sleep. 

Toward  five  in  the  morning,  he  fancied  he  heard  steps  in  the  pas- 
sage, and  a short  time  afterward,  ths  door  of  his  room  was  opened, 


CONST)  i5  L O. 


299 


with  some  noise  and  some  difficulty.  It  was  not  yet  elear  day,  and 
seeing  a man  come  into  his  room  with  small  ceremony,  Anzoleto 
thought  that  the  decisive  moment  had  arrived.  He  sprang  up,  stil- 
letto  in  hand,  with  the  bound  of  a wild  bull ; but  he  almost  instantly 
recognised  in  the  morning  twilight  the  figure  of  his  guide  making  him 
signs  to  speak  low,  and  make  no  noise. 

“ What  do  you  mean  by  these  grimaces,  you  fool  ? and  what  do 
you  want  with  me  ? ” asked  Anzoleto,  angrily.  “ How  did  you  con- 
trive to  get  in  here  ? ” 

“ How,  my  good  sir  ? Why,  by  the  door,  to  be  sure.” 

“ The  door  was  locked.” 

“ But  you  had  left  the  key  on  the  outside.” 

“ Impossible ! There  it  is  on  my  table.” 

“ It  is  very  odd,  but  there  are  two.” 

‘ And  who  can  have  played  me  the  trick  of  locking  me  up  here. 
Was  it  you,  when  you  came  for  my  portmanteau?  ” 

“ I swear  it  was  not  1 1 And  I have  not  even  seen  a key.” 

“ It  must  have  been  the  devil,  then ! But  what  do  you  come  hither 
for,  with  that  frightened  and  mysterious  face  ? I have  not  called  for 
you.” 

“ You  do  not  give  me  time  to  speak.  You  see  me,  however,  and 
know,  doubtless,  what  I want.  The  signora  reached  Tusta,  and  in 
compliance  with  her  orders,  here  am  I with  my  horses,  ready  to  con- 
vey you  thither.” 

Some  minutes  passed  before  Anzoleto  could  be  brought  to  compre- 
hend what  was  going  forward.  But  he  guessed  at  the  truth  quickly 
enough  to  prevent  his  guide,  whose  superstitious  fears  in  regard  to  the 
devil  were  passing  away  with  the  gloom  of  night,  from  falling  back 
upon  his  terrors.  He  had  began  by  examining  and  sounding  all  the 
money  which  Consuelo  had  given  him  upon  the  pavement  of  the 
stable,  and  he  held  himself  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  infernal  bar- 
gain. Anzoleto  now  understood  at  a glance,  and  supposing  that  the 
fugitive  might  have  been,  on  her  side,  so  far  watched  that  she  could 
not  inform  him  of  her  resolution ; that,  menaced  and  driven  to  ex- 
tremities by  her  lover’s  jealousy,  she  had  seized  a propitious  moment 
to  rid  herself  of  his  authority,  had  escaped,  and  taken  to  the  country. 
“ At  all  events,”  said  he,  “ there  is  no  time  for  doubt  or  hesitation. 
The  instructions  which  she  has  sent  me  by  this  man,  are  clear  enough. 
Victoria!  If  I can  now  only  get  out  of  this  place  to  overtake  her 
without  having  to  cross  swords,  all  will  be  well.” 

He  armed  himself  to  the  teeth,  and  while  he  was  dressing  in  all 
haste,  he  sent  the  guide  before  him  to  see  that  the  ways  were  clear. 
On  his  reply  that  ail  the  world  appeared  to  be  sound  asleep,  with  tue 
exception  of  the  keeper  of  the  drawbridge,  who  had  just  lowered  it 
for  him,  Anzoleto  descended  stealthily,  mounted  his  horse,  and  only 
saw  a single  groom  in  the  court,  whom  he  called  up  to  him,  and  gave 
him  some  money,  in  order  that  his  departure  might  not  bear  the  re- 
semblance of  a flight. 

“By  Saint  Wenceslaus!”  said  the  man,  “this  is  a strange  affair. 
The  horses  are  covered  with  sweat  on  their  first  coming  out  of  the 
stable,  as  if  they  had  been  ridden  hard  all  night.” 

“ It  is  your  black  devil  who  has  been  currying  them  in  the  night,” 
replied  the  guide. 

“ It  must  be  so,  I think,”  said  the  other;  “ for  I heard  a hideous 
uoim  in  this  direction  all  night  long.  I did  not  dare  to  come  to 


800 


CONSUELO. 


but  I heard  the  portcullis  creak,  and  the  drawbridge  fall  just  m clear?* 
M I see  you  at  this  moment,  so  much  so  that  I thought  it  was  you. 
who  were  going,  and  hardly  expected  to  see  you  here  this  morning.” 

At  the  drawbridge  the  observation  was  repeated. — “ Is  your  lord- 
ihip  then  double  ? ” asked  the  porter,  rubbing  his  eyes.  “ I saw  you 
»et  forth  about  midnight,  and  now  you  are  setting  forth  again.” 

“ You  have  been  dreaming,  my  good  man,”  said  Anzoleto,  making 
a present  to  him  also.  “ I should  not  have  gone  without  asking  you 
to  drink  my  health.” 

“Your  lordship  does  me  too  much  honor,”  said  the  porter,  who 
murdered  Italian  a little.  “ All  one  for  that  1 ” he  added  to  the  guide 
in  their  own  tongue.  “ I have  seen  two  of  them  to-night.” 

“ Take  care  then  that  you  don’t  see  four  to-morrow  night;  ” replied 
the  guide,  following  Anzoleto  across  the  bridge  at  a gallop.  “ The 
black  devil  plays  just  such  tricks  to  folks  who  sleep  like  you.” 

Anzoleto,  well  warned  and  well  instructed  by  his  guide,  speedily 
reached  Tusta.  He  passed  through  it  after  having  dismissed  his  man 
and  hired  post-horses,  abstained  from  asking  any  questions  until  he 
had  travelled  ten  leagues,  and  at  the  place  so  indicated  on  stopping  to 
breakfast,  he  enquired  for  Madam  Wolf,  whom  he  expected  to  find 
there  with  a carriage.  No  one  could  give  him  any  intelligence  of  her, 
and  for  a right  good  reason.  There  was  but  one  Madam  Wolf  in  the 
place,  but  she  had  resided  in  the  house  fifty  years,  and  kept  a millin- 
er’s shop.  Anzoleto  worn  out  and  exhausted,  fancied  that  Consuelo 
must  have  feared  to  halt  so  soon.  He  asked  to  hire  a carriage,  but 
could  not  find  one.  In  spite  of  his  teeth  he  was  compelled  again  to 
take  horse,  and  to  pursue  his  way  at  a hard  gallop.  He  fancied  it  im- 
possible but  that  he  must  overtake  the  longed-for  carriage  at  every 
step,  into  which  he  could  spring,  and  compensate  himself  for  all  his 
fatigues ; but  he  met  very  few  travellers,  and  in  none  of  the  carriages 
did  he  see  Consuelo.  At  length  overcome  with  weariness,  and  find- 
ing it  impossible  to  hire  a carriage  any  where,  he  determined  to  stop, 
mortally  annoyed,  and  to  wait  in  a small  hamlet  by  the  roadside,  for 
Consuelo  to  overtake  him ; for  he  had  now  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
must  have  passed  her  on  the  road.  He  had  plenty  of  time  during  all 
the  remainder  of  that  day,  and  all  the  following  night,  to  curse  the 
roads  and  inns  in  general,  and  jealous  persons  and  women  in  particu- 
lar. On  the  following  day  he  found  a publie  conveyance  travelling  to 
the  northward,  and  proceeded,  unhappily  enough,  on  the  road  toward 
Prague.  We  will  leave  him  pressing  on  toward  the  north — a prey  to 
real  rage,  and  to  desperate  impatience  blended  with  hope, — in  order 
to  return  ourselves  for  a few  minutes  to  the  castle,  and  to  see  the 
effect  of  Consuelo’s  departure  on  its  inhabitants. 

It  may  well  be  believed  that  Count  Albert  was  no  better  able  to 
sleep,  than  the  two  other  persons  engaged  in  that  singular  adventure. 
After  having  provided  himself  with  a master-key  to  Anzoleto’s  apart- 
ment^ he  had  locked  him  in  from  without,  and  felt  no  more  uneasiness 
as  to  his  proceedings — well  knowing  that  unless  Consuelo  herself 
should  do  so,  no  one  else  would  go  to  his  delivery.  In  regard  to  the 
former  contingency,  the  very  idea  of  which  made  him  shudder,  Albert 
had  the  excessive  delicacy  not  to  attempt  any  in  prudent  discovery. 
“If  she  loves  him  to  that  degree,”  he  thought,  * it  is  not  for  me  to 
itrive  against  it.  * have  only  to  let  my  lot  be  accomplished.  I shall 
not  have  ong  to  wait,  for  she  is  secure ; and  to-morrow  she  will  open- 
er refuse  the  offers  I made  her  to-day.  If  she  is  only  persecuted  and 


OONSUBLO, 


801 


threatened  by  this  dangerous  mandat  all  events  she  Is  safe  now  from 
his  pursuit,  for  one  night  at  least.  Now,  whatever  smothered  sounds 
I may  hear  around  me,  I will  not  stir.  Never  will  I play  the  base  part 
of  a spy;  nor  will  I inflict  on  the  unhappy  girl  the  agony  of  shame,  by 
appearing  before  h*r  without  being  called  for.  No,  I will  not  play  the 
coward  part  of  a spy,  nor  of  one  jealously  suspicious,  since  up  to  this 
time  her  refusals  and  irresolution,  give  me  no  claim  upon  her  whatsO' 
ever.  I know  but  one  thing  consolatory  to  my  honor,  though  alarm- 
ing to  my  love— that  I shall  not  be  deceived.  Soul  of  her  I adore— 
thou  who  dwellest  at  one  time  in  the  bosom  of  the  most  perfect  of 
women,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  universal  God,  if,  through  the  myste- 
ries and  shadows  of  the  human  thought,  you  can  read  my  feelings  at 
this  moment,  thine  inward  sentiment  will  tell  thee  that  I love  too 
much  not  to  believe  thee ! ” jM 

And  courageously  and  religiously  Albert  kept  the  engagement 
which  he  had  taken  withinJhimself,  and  although  he  thought  he  heard 
Consuelo’s  steps,  as  she  passed  along  the  lower  floor  at  the  time  of  her 
flight,  as  well  as  some  inexplicable  noise  in  the  direction  of  the  port- 
cullis, he  remained  quiet,  though  in  agony,  praying,  and  holding  his 
hands  clasped  over  his  breast,  as  if  to  hinder  his  heart  from  bursting 
its  confinement.  When  the  day  broke,  he  heard  some  one  walking 
and  doors  opening  towards  Anzoleto’s  chamber.  “ The  infamous 
wretch  1 ” said  he ; a he  leaves  her  without  shame  or  precaution.  He 
leems  even  desirous  of  rendering  his  victory  publicly  notorious.  Ah  l 
for  the  injury  he  does  me  I would  care  nothing,  were  it  not  that 
another  soul— nobler  and  dearer  than  my  own,  is  contaminated  by 
his  love.” 

At  the  hour  when  the  Count  Christian  was  wont  to  arise,  Albert 
went  to  his  apartment,  not  to  inform  him  of  what  had  passed,  but  to 
prevail  on  him  to  seek  a farther  explanation  from  Consuelo.  He  was 
sure  that  she  would  not  stoop  to  falsehood.  He  thought  that  she 
would  even  desire  the  explanation,  and  was  planning  how  to  console 
her  trouble — to  reconcile  her  even  to  her  shame,  and  to  feign  a resig- 
nation, which  should  soften  the  bitterness  of  their  adieux.  Albert 
asked  himself  not,  what  would  become  of  him  thereafter  ? He  felt 
that  either  his  reason  or  his  life  would  give  way  under  such  a shock, 
and  he  feared  not  the  experience  of  suffering  greater  than  this  en- 
durance. 

He  met  his  father  just  as  he  was  entering  the  oratory.  The  letter 
laid  upon  the  desk  attracted  both  their  eyes  at  the  same  moment. 
They  seized  and  read  it  together.  The  old  man  was  thunderstruck, 
thinking  that  Albert  would  not  be  able  to  endure  it.  But  Albert,  who 
had  prepared  himself  for  a yet  greater  calamity,  was  calm,  resigned, 
and  firm  in  his  confidence. 

“ She  is  pure,”  said  he ; " she  desires  to  love  me.  She  feels  that  my 
love  is  true,  and  my  faith  impregnable.  God  will  save  her  from  dan- 
ger. Let  us  accept  this  promise,  my  father,  and  let  us  be  tranquil; 
fear  nothing  forme.  I shall  be  stronger  than  my  grief,  and  I will 
master  my  anxieties  should  they  attack  me.” 

“ My  son,”  said  the  old  man  tenderly.  “ Here  we  stand  before  the 
image  of  the  God  of  thy  fathers.  Thou  hast  adopted  a different 
creed,  and  I have  never  blamed  them  angrily,  though  thou  knowest 
that  they  have  caused  my  heart  to  bleed.  I am  about  to  prostrate 
myself  before  the  effigy  of  that  God,  before  whom  I promised  thee 
during  the  past  night,  to  do  all  that  depends  on  me  to  bring  about  the 


WjS 


03NSUXX.®. 


of  thy  love,  and  its  ratification  on  honorable  terra*.  I have 
kept  my  promise,  and  I renew  it.  I am  about  to  pray  again  to  the 
All  Powerful,  that  He  will  grant  thy  prayers,  and  that  mine  shall  not 
stand  at  variance  with  thine.  Wilt  thou  not  then  join  with  me  in  this 
solemn  hour,  which  perhaps  shall  decide  in  heaven  the  fate  of  thy  love 
here  on  earth  ? O*  then,  my  noble  son,  whom  the  Lord  has  given 
grace  to  retain  all  thy  virtues,  in  spite  of  the  trials  to  which  he  has 
subjected  thy  former  faith — thou,  whom  I have  seen  in  thy  early  in- 
fancy kneeling  by  my  side  on  thy  mother’s  tomb,  and  praying,  like  a 
young-eyed  angel,  to  that  Sovereign  Master,  whom  thou  hadst  not 
then  learned  to  doubt — wilt  thou  refuse  to  lift  thy  voice  to  Him  this 
day,  that  mine  may  not  be  useless  ? ” 

My  father,”  replied  Albert,  clasping  him  in  his  arras ; “ if  our  faith 
HR&r  as  to  forms  and  dogmas,  our  souls  will  forever  be  agreed  on  the 
^existence  of  a divine  and  eternal  principle.  You  serve  a God  of  wis- 
dom mid  of  goodness,  an  ideal  of  perfection,  of  knowledge,  and  of 
Justice,  whom  I never  have  ceased  to  adore.  O,  thou  crucified  Divin- 
ity,” hi  cried,  kneeling  beside  his  father  before  the  image  of  the  Re- 
deemer,* “ Thou  whom  men  adore  as  the  Word,  and  whom  I revere 
as  the  noblest  and  most  perfect  specimen  of  universal  love  among  wl 
listen  to  my  prayer,  Thou  whose  thoughts  dwell  eternally  in  God  and 
in  us!  Bless  our  just  instincts  and  upright  endeavors!  Pity  the 
perversity  which  is  triumphant,  and  sustain  the  innocence  which 
resists.  Let  that  come  of  my  happiness  which  God  will ! But  oh, 
incarnate  Deity,  let  thy  influence  direct  and  encourage  those  hearts 
which  have  no  other  strength  and  no  other  consolation  than  thy 
sqjoura,  and  thy  example  here  on  earth.” 


CHAPTER  LXTTL 

Amolbto  pursued  his  route  to  Prague  wholly  to  no  purpose;  for 
no  sooner  had  she  given  the  guide  the  false  instructions,  which  she 
considered  necessary  to  the  success  of  her  enterprise,  than  Consuelo 
struck  into  a cross-road,  which  she  knew,  from  having  traversed  it 
twice  In  a carriage  with  the  baroness  Amelia,  when  going  to  the 
neighboring  chateau  of  Tauss.  That  chateau  was  the  farthest  point 
to  which  the  few  excursions  that  she  had  made  from  Riesenberg,  had 
extended.  Therefore,  the  aspect  of  that  district,  and  the  direction  of 
the  roads  had  occurred  to  her,  so  soon  as  she  had  conceived  the  idea 
of  flight  She  remembered  that,  while  walking  on  the  terrace  of  the 
castle,  the  lady  to  whom  it  belonged  had  said  to  her,  while  she  was 
pointing  out  the  vast  extent  of  beautiful  country,  which  was  to  be 
seen  stretehing  out  to  the  horizon — “ that  fine  road,  with  an  avenue  of 
trees,  which  you  see  below  there,  and  which  fades  out  of  sight  on  the 
horizon,  loins  the  great  Southern  Road,  and  it  is  by  it  that  we  go  to 
Vienna.”  Consuelo,  with  that  direction  and  clear  recollection  on  her 
mind,  was  certain  of  not  losing  her  way,  &/id  of  regaining  the  road  by 
which  she  had  herself  entered  Bohemia,  at  no  inordinate  distance. 
She  reached  the  park  of  Biela— skirted  the  walls  of  the  park — discov- 
•red,  without  much  difficulty,  notwithstanding  the  darkness  of  the 
might,  the  road  with  its  avenue  of  trees,  and  before  day  broke  had 


0 O IS  a V K L o. 


803 

eeeded  in  setting  between  herself  and  the  place  which  she  wished  to 
leave  behind,  a space  of  at  least  three  leagues  as  the  crow  flies. 
Young,  healthy,  active,  and  accustomed  from  her  childhood  to  long 
walks,  supported,  moreover,  by  an  energetic  will,  she  saw  the  day 
dawn  without  having  experienced  the  least  fatigue.  The  heaven  was 
serene, — the  roads  dry,  and  covered  with  smooth  soft  sand.  The  gal- 
lop of  the  horse,  to  which  she  was  not  accustomed,  had  shaken  her  a 
good  deal ; but  it  is  well  known  that  foot  exercise  in  such  cases  is  bet- 
ter than  rest,  and  that  with  energetic  temperaments,  one  kind  of 
weariness  is  the  cure  for  the  other.  Nevertheless,  as  the  stars  began 
to  pale  in  the  skies  and  the  twilight  grew  clearer  and  clearer,  she 
began  to  feel  alarmed  at  her  loneliness.  She  had  been  perfectly  com- 
posed and  at  her  ease  during  the  darkness — for  constantly  on  thorns 
from  the  apprehension  of  being  pursued,  she  knew  that  she  was  al- 
ways safe,  through  her  power  of  concealing  herself  before  she  should 
be  discovered.  But  now  that  it  was  day,  having  to  traverse  wide 
tracts  ..of  open  country,  she  did  not  dare  to  follow  the  beaten  track,  the 
rather  that  she  saw  groups  in  all  directions  afar  off,  scattered  like 
small  black  points  along  the  whitish  line  which  the  road  described, 
by  its  contrast  with  the  dark  country  over  which  it  ran.  At  so  short 
a distance  from  Riesenberg  she  might  be  recognized  by  the  first  passer- 
by, and  she  determined  to  turn  into  a path,  which  looked  as  if  it 
would  shorten  her  road,  by  cutting  off  at  right  angles  a circuit,  which 
the  causeway  here  made  around  a hill. — She  walked  thus  for  nearly 
an  hour  without  meeting  any  person,  and  entered  a woody  piece  of 
ground,  in  which  she  felt  now  that  she  should  be  able  to  conceal  her- 
self from  prying  eyes.  “ If  I could  gain  a start  of  eight  or  ten  leagues 
thus  without  being  discovered,  I should  then  walk  at  my  ease  along 
the  high  road,  and  on  the  first  opportunity,  I could  hire  a carriage  and 
horses.,, 

This  thought  made  her  put  her  hand  into  her  purse,  to  calculate 
how  much  money  remained  to  her,  after  her  liberal  payment  of  the 
guide,  who  had  brought  her  from  Riesenberg,  for  the  prosecution  of 
her  long  and  difficult  journey.  She  had  not  taken  time  to  reflect  coolly, 
and  it  is  doubtful  whether,  if  she  had  made  all  the  reflections  which  pru- 
dence should  have  suggested,  she  would  ever  have  resolved  on  this  ad- 
venturous flight.  But  what  was  her  consternation  and  surprise  at  per- 
ceiving that  her  slender  purse  was  much  fighter  than  she  had  imagined. 
In  her  haste,  she  had  either  carried  away  but  half  the  small  sum  which 
she  possessed,  or  in  the  confusion  and  darkness,  she  had  paid  the  guide 
gold  instead  of  silver.  So  that,  after  counting  and  recounting  her 
coins  without  being  able  to  deceive  herself  on  the  trivial  sum  which 
they  contained,  she  came  to  the  cor  fiction  that  she  could  reach  Vi- 
enna only  by  travelling  the  whole  way  on  foot. 

Tilts  discovery  at  first  discouraged  her  not  a little,  not  so  much  on 
account  of  the  fatigue,  which  she  did  not  fear,  but  of  the  dangers 
which,  to  a young  woman,  are  inseparable  from  a long  journey  on  foot. 
This  fear,  which  she  had  hitherto  < vercome  by  saying  to  herself  that 
she  would  soon  shelter  herself  from  all  the  dangers  of  the  high  road  by 
taking  a carriage,  began  to  address  her  louder  than  she  had  expected 
during  the  first  excitement  of  her  ( verwrought  ideas ; and,  as  if  over- 
come for  the  first  time  n her  life  by  the  consciousness  of  her  poverty 
and  weakness,  she  began  to  walk  a quickly  as  she  could,  seeking  the 
shade  of  the  deepest  coppices,  as  ii  in  these  she  could  find  an  asylum 
from  her  uneasiness.  To  increas  her  distress,  she  soon  found  that 


CONSUELO. 


804 

•lie  was  following  no  regularl/  beaten  track,  and  that  she  was  wan* 
dering  at  hazard  through  a wood  which  was  becoming  at  every  step 
thicker  and  thicker.  If  the  dead  solitude  of  the  place,  in  some  re- 
spects, relieved  her  fears,  the  uncertainty  of  her  direction  alarmed  het 
on  another  point, — for  she  might  be  unconsciously  returning  on  her 
steps  and  drawing  nearer  to  the  Giants’  Castle.  Anzoleto  might  be 
there  still ; a suspicion,  an  accident,  a thought  of  vengeance  against 
Albert,  might  any  of  them  have  retained  him  ? And  again,  had  she 
not  reason  to  fear  Albert  himself,  in  the  first  moments  of  his  surprise 
and  despair?  Consuelo  was  well  satisfied  that  he  would  submit  him- 
self to  her  decision,  but  if  she  were  to  be  seen  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
castle,  and  if  the  young  count  were  to  hear  of  her  being  within 
reach,  would  he  not  hasten  to  her  with  the  hope  of  bringing  her 
oack  by  his  tears  and  supplications?  Would  it  be  just,  then,  to  ex- 
pose this  noble  youth,  his  family,  nay,  even  her  own  pride,  to  the  rid- 
icule of  an  enterprise  undertaken  only  to  fail  as  quickly?  Moreover, 
it  was  not  unlikely  that  Anzoleto  would  return  in  a few  days,  and 
bring  back  that  inextricable  confusion  of  embarrassments  and  dan- 
gers, which  she  had  severed  by  a bold  and  generous  stroke  of  deci- 
sion. It  was  better,  therefore,  to  brave  all,  and  expose  herself  to  all, 
than  to  return  to  Riesenberg. 

Determined  then  to  make  her  way  to  Vienna  at  all  hazards,  she 
stopped  at  a shadowy  and  solitary  spot,  where  a living  spring  gushed 
out  from  among  umbrageous  trees  and  moss-grown  rocks.  The  soil 
around  was  pouched,  and  cut  up  by  the  footmarks  of  many  animals. 
Was  it  that  the  flocks  of  the  neighborhood,  or  the  beasts  of  the  forest 
came,  from  time  to  time,  to  quench  their  thirst  at  that  secluded 
spring?  Consuelo  drew  nigh  to  it,  and,  kneeling  on  the  damp  stone, 
drank  joyfully  of  that  clear  and  ice-cold  water.  Then,  remaining  on 
Her  bended  knees,  she  meditated  for  a little  while  on  her  situation, 
“lam  very  foolish,”  she  thought,  “ and  very  vain,  if  I cannot  accom- 
plish what  I have  set  out  to  do.  What,  then,  has  the  daughter  of  my 
mother  become  so  effeminate  by  the  luxuries  of  life,  that  she  dare  not 
encounter  the  heat  of  the  sun,  hunger,  fatigue,  or  danger?  Are 
these,  then,  all  my  dreams  and  longings  after  poverty  and  freedom, 
when  in  the  midst  of  wealth,  which  seemed  only  to  oppress  me,  and 
from  which  1 longed  to  extricate  myself?  And  am  I now  terror- 
stricken  at  the  first  step  I have  taken?  Is  not  this  the  trade  to 
which  I was  born — ‘ to  travel,  to  dare,  and  to  sutler?’  and  what  is 
then  changed  about  me  since  the  days  when  I used  to  wander  with 
my  mother,  often  ahungered,  quenching  our  thirst  in  the  little  way- 
side  fountains,  and  gaining  strength  from  the  draught  ? What  dan- 
gers did  I fear  with  my  mother  ? Was  she  not  wont  to  say  to  me  when 
we  met  ominous-looking  characters,  ‘ Fear  nothing.  Those  who 
possess  nothing,  nothing  threatens,  and  the  miserable  war  not  upon 
the  miserable ? ’ Courage,  then, courage!  I will  on;  for  this  day,  I 
have  nothing  to  fear  but  hunger.  I will  not,  therefore,  this  day  enter 
a cottage  to  beg  bread,  until  I shall  be  far,  far  away,  and  night  shall 
have  covered  the  earth.  A day  will  be  passed  speedily.  When  it  be- 
comes hot,  and  my  limbs  wax  faint,  I will  recall  to  mind  that  axiom 
of  philosophy  which  I have  heard  so  often  in  my  childhood — ‘ he  who 
sleeps,  dines.’  I will  hide  myself  in  some  hollow  of  the  rocks,  and 
then  shall  see  my  .poor  mother,  who  watchest  over  me  now,  and  voy- 
agest  by  my  side,  invisible,  that  I still  know  how  to  take  my  siesta  on 
the  bare  earth  without  a pillow.  Courage.  I will  on! ” 


C9XSV  BL».  106 

And  m the  spoke,  Consuelo  tried  to  rise;  but,  after  three  or  four 
attempts  to  leave  that  wild  and  lovely  spring,  the  sweet  murmur  of 
which  seemed  to  invite  repose,  the  sleep  which  she  had  purposed  to 
defer,  until  afternoon  crept  tipon  her  heavy  eyelids,  and  hunger, 
which  she  was  not  so  much  accustomed  to  endure  as  she  imagined, 
increased  her  sense  of  exhaustion.  She  strove  to  disguise  this  front 
herself  in  vain.  She  had  eaten  scarce  anything  on  the  previous  even* 
ing:  anxiety  and  agitation  had  conquered  her  appetite.  A veil 
now  seemed  to  be  drawn  over  her  eyes — a chill  and  heavy  perspira- 
tion broke  out  on  her  languid  limbs,  and,  without  being  conscious  of 
it,  she  yielded  gradually  to  weariness ; and,  while  in  the  very  act  of 
forming  a resolution  to  arise  at  once  and  proceed  on  her  journey,  her 
frame  surrendered  itself  to  the  neccessity  of  sleep— her  head  fell  back 
on  her  little  travelling  bag,  and  she  fell  sound  asleep  on  the  grass. 

The  sun,  red  and  hot,  as  he  is  seen  sometimes  in  the  summer  skiei 
of  Bohemia,  climbed  the  heavens  gaily ; the  fountain  bubbled  over  its 
pebbles,  as  if  it  would  have  lulled  the  slumber  of  the  wayfarer  with 
its  monotonous  song,  and  the  birds  fluttered  from  twig  to  twig  singing 
' their  lively  strains  above  her  unconscious  head. 


CHAPTER  LXIY. 

It  was  nearly  three  o’clock  before  the  forgetful  girl  awoke,  nor  then 
until  another  sound  than  that  of  the  fountain,  and  the  merry  birds 
disturbed  her  from  her  lethargy.  She  half  opened  her  eyes,  without 
having  as  yet  the  power  to  arise,  and  saw,  scarce  two  paces  from  her, 
a man  bending  over  the  spring  and  drinking  as  she  had  done  but  a 
short  time  before,  without  more  ceremony  than  merely  applying  his 
lips  to  the  stream.  Consuelo’s  first  feeling  was  of  alarm,  but  the 
second  glance  which  she  cast  upon  the  intruder  on  her  privacy,  re- 
moved her  apprehensions.  For,  whether  he  had  observed  the  fe*» 
tures  of  the  fair  traveller  at  his  leisure  before  she  awoke,  or  whether 
he  took  no  care  about  her,  it  is  certain  that  he  seemed  to  take  but 
little  notice  of  her.  Beside,  he  was  in  fact  rather  a boy  than  a man. 
He  seemed  to  be  about  fifteen,  or  at  most  sixteen  years  of  age — was 
small  for  his  years,  tawny  and  sun-burned,  and  his  face,  which  was 
neither  handsome  nor  the  reverse,  showed  nothing  at  that  moment 
but  quiet  indifference. 

By  an  instinctive  movement,  Consuelo  drew  her  veil  over  her  fea- 
tures, and  made  no  alteration  in  her  position,  thinking  that,  if  the 
traveller  should  pay  no  more  attention  to  her  than  he  at  this  moment, 
seemed  disposed  to  do,  it  would  be  the  better  way  to  feign  sleep,  and 
to  avoid  embarrassing  questions.  Through  her  veil,  however,  she 
could  distinctly  see  all  his  movements,  expecting  momentarily  to  see 
him  take  up  his  knapsack,  and  proceed  on  his  way. 

Soon,  however,  she  saw  that  he  intended  to  rest  a while  also,  and 
even  to  break  his  fast ; for  he  opened  his  wallet,  took  out  of  it  a large 

Eiece  of  brown  bread,  which  he  proceeded  to  cut,  and  eat  with  a 
earty  appetite.  While  doing  this,  he  cast,  from  time  to  time,  a shy 
and  deferential  glance  on  the  fair  sleeper,  and  took  special  care  not  to 
awaken  her  suddenly,  as  appeared  by  the  gentleness  with  which  be 


toe 


OQN8U8LO, 


deied  the  spring  of  his  clasp-knife.  This  nark  of  deference  restored 
complete  confidence  to  Cons  lelo,  and  the  sight  of  the  bread,  which 
her  companion  was  eating  with  such  a relish,  turned  her  thoughts  to 
her  own  hunger.  After  having  satisfied  herself,  by  an  examination  oi 
the  boy’s  disordered  dress,  and  dusty  shoes,  that  he  was  a poor  coun- 
try traveller,  she  took  it  into  her  head  that  he  was  an  unexpected  aid 
sent  to  her  by  Providence,  by  whom  she  was  bound  to  profit.  The 
piece  of  bread  was  beyond  what  he  could  need;  and,  without  limit- 
ing his  own  appetite,  he  could  easily  spare  her  a portion.  She  arose, 
therefore,  and  affecting  to  draw  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  as  if  she 
had  Just  awakened,  and  look  at  the  boy  with  a steady  and  assured 
eye,  as  if  to  influence  him  should  he  show  any  signs  of  altering  the 
respectful  demeanor  he  had  thus  far  shown  her.  But  of  this  precau- 
tion there  was  no  need.  For  so  soon  as  he  saw  her  standing  up,  the 
boy  was  at  first  a little  embarrassed,  lowered  his  eyes,  and  after  rais- 
ing them  and  letting  them  fall  several  times  in  succession,  at  length, 
encouraged  by  the  kind  and  sympathizing  expression  of  Consuelc’s 
face,  in  spite  of  all  her  desire  to  keep  it  grave,  he  ventured  to  address 
her  in  a voice  so  gentle  and  harmonious,  that  the  young  cantatrice 
was  involuntarily  predisposed  in  his  favor.  “ Well,  mademoiselle,”  he 
•aid,  with  a smile.  “ so  you  are  awake  at  last?  You  were  sleeping 
there  so  comfortably,  that,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  fear  of  seeming 
impertinent,  I should  have  done  as  much  myself;” 

“ You  are  as  obliging  as  you  are  polite,”  said  Consuelo,  assuming  a 
sort  of  maternal  tone  towards  him.  “ You  shall  do  me  a little  service, 
if  you  will.” 

“ Whatever  you  please,”  said  the  young  wayfarer,  to  whom  Consu- 
elo’s  voice  appeared  no  less  agreeable  than  his  had  been  to  her. 

u You  shall  sell  me  a little  portion  of  your  breakfast,”  said  Consu- 
elo, “ if  you  can  spare  it.” 

“ Sell  it  to  you!  ” cried  the  boy,  astonished,  and  blushing  deeply. 
“ Oh ! if  I had  a breakfast,  I would  not  sell  it  to  you ! I am  not  an  inn- 
keeper, but  I would  offer  it,  and  give  it  to  you.” 

“ You  will  give  to  me,  then,  on  condition  that  I give  you  enough  te 
procure  a better  breakfast  ? ” 

u No  indeed  I no  indeed ! ” replied  he.  “ You  are  joking,  I suppose ; 
or  are  you  too  proud  to  accept  a poor  bit  of  bread  from  me ; you  see 
that  I have  nothing  else  to  offer.” 

“ Well, I accept  it,”  said  Consuelo,  extending  her  hand  for  it;  “ the 
goodness  of  your  heart  should  make  me  blush,  were  I to  show  too  much 
pride.”  ' 

“ Take  it,  take  it,  beautiful  lady,”  cried  the  young  man  delighted 
u Take  the  bread  and  the  knife,  and  cut  for  yourself,  but  pray  don’t 
•pare  it.  I am  not  much  of  an  eater,  and  that  should  have  lasted  me 
all  my  day’s  journey.” 

u But  have  you  enough  wherewithal  to  purchase  more  for  your  jour- 
ney ? ” 

* Cannot  one  get  bread  everywhere  ? Come,  eat,  I pray  you,  if  you 
would  oblige  me.” 

Consuelo  c&d  not  wait  to  be  requested  any  farther,  and  feeling  that 
it  would  be  a poor  requital  to  ho:  brotherly  entertainer  to  refuse  to 
eat  in  his  company,  she  sat  down  not  far  from  him,  and  began  to  eat 
the  bread,  in  comparison  of  which,  the  richest  and  most  delicate  meata 
she  had  e re r tasted,  appeared  coarse  and  vapid. 

w What  an  excellent  appetite  you  have,”  said  the  boy.  * It  4o m 


8*7 


ef>M*Tr®LoC 

one  good  to  sefc  you  eat.  Well,  I am  very  happy  to  have  met  you,  la 
(bet,  it  makes  me  perfect!  y liappy  to  have  done  so.  Come  take  my  ad- 
vice, let  us  eat  it  all.  W?  shall  find  some  house  on  our  road  to-day, 
although  this  country  seems  to  be  a desert.’’ 
u You  are  not  acquainted  with  it  then  ? ” said  Consuelo,  indiffer- 
ently. 

“ It  Is  the  first  time  I have  travelled  it  this  way,  though  I kqow  the 
road  from  Vienna  to  Pilsen,  over  which  I have  Just  travelled,  and 
which  I shall  follow  on  my  way  down  yonder  again.” 

“ Down  yonder— do  you  mean  to  Vienna!  ” 

“ Yes,  to  Vienna ; are  yqu  going  thither  also  ? ” 

Consuelo,  who  was  hesitating  whether  she  should  take  this  boy  as 
a travelling  companion,  or  avoid  him,  pretended  to  be  thinking  of  some- 
thing else,  so  as  to  avoid  answering. 

“ Bah ! what  am  I thinking  about  ? ” said  the  youth,  correcting  him- 
self. “ A beautiful  young  lady  like  yourself  would  not  be  going  alone 
to  Vienna.  And  yet  you  are  travelling  somewhere,  for  you  have  a 
package,  and  are  on  foot  as  I am.” 

Consuelo,  who  was  determined  to  avoid  his  questions,  until  such 
time  as  she  should  discover  how  far  he  was  to  be  trusted,  answered 
his  question  by  another  question,  “ Do  you  live  at  Pilsen  ? ” 

“ No,”  replied  the  boy,  who  had  neither  cause  nor  inclination  to  be 
distrustful,  “ I am  from  Rohrau  in  Hungary.  My  father  is  a wheel- 
wright by  trade.”  ^ 

u And  how  came  you  to  be  travelling  so  far  from  home  ? You  do 
not  follow  your  father’s  business,  then  ? ” 

Yes,  and  no.  My  father  is  a wheelwright,  and  I am  not;  but  be 
is  a musician,  and  so  do  I hope  to  be.” 

“ A musician, — bravo ! — that  is  an  honorable  profession.” 

H Perhaps  you  are  one  also — are  you  ? ” 

u But  you  were  not  going  to  study  music  at  Pilsen ; it  la  said  to  be 
a gloomy  garrison  town.” 

rt  Oh ! no.  I was  entrusted  with  a commission  to  do  there,  and  am 
on  my  way  back  to  Vienna,  where  I hope  to  earn  my  living,  while  ] 
continue  my  musical  studies.” 

What  style  have  you  adopted— vocal, or  instrumental?” 

“ A little  of  both.  I have  a pretty  good  voice,  and  I have  a pool 
little  violin  yonder  with  which  I can  make  myself  understood.  Bui 
my  ambition  has  a wider  range,  and  I wish  to  go  farther  than  this.” 
u-  Perhaps  to  compose  ? ” 

“ You  have  said  it.  I have  nothing  in  my  head  but  this  confounded 
composition.  I will  show  you  that  I have  a good  travelling  compan- 
ion in  my  wallet.  It  is  a great  book,  which  I have  cut  to  pieces  in 
order  to  carry  it  the  more  easily  about  the  country ; and  when  I am 
tired  and  sit  down  to  rest,  I amuse  myself  by  studying  it.  That,  in 
itself,  rests  me.” 

“ A very  good  idea ; and  I would  lay  a wager  it  is  the  Gradus  ad 
Pama88um  of  Fuchs.” 

“ Exactly.  Ah ! I see  you  know  all  about  it ; and  I am  sure,  now, 
that  you  are  a musician  as  well  as  I.  Just  now  as  I looked  at  you, 
while  you  were  asleep,  I saic  to  myself— that  is  not  a Herman  face ; it 
is  a Southern  face— perhaps  Italian — and  what  pleases  me  more,  it  is 
an  artist’s  face : therefore,  it  gave  me  much  pleasure  when  you  asked 
me  for  some  or  my  bread ; and  now  I see  that  you  have  a foreign  a & 
seatj  though  you  speak  German  as  well  as  may  be.” 


898 


C 0 N S U E I 0. 


“Ton  may  be  deceived.  You  have  r 3t  a German  face  either — you 

have  the  complexion  of  an  Italian,  and  yet ” 

* Oh  I mademoiselle,  you  are  too  gocd.  I have  the  complexion  of 
an  African;  and  my  companions  in  the  choir  at,  St.  Stephen’s  used  to 
call  me  the  Moor.  But  to  return  to  what  I was  saying, — when  I first 
found  you  asleep  in  the  middle  of  the  wood,  I was  a good  deal  sur- 
prised, and  then  I made  up  a hundred  fancies  about  you.  It  is.  per- 
naps,  thought  I,  my  good  star  which  has  brought  me  hither  to  and  a 
ki^d  heart  that  will  assist  me.  At  last — may  I tell  you  all  ? ” 

1 Say  on  without  fear.” 

“ Seeing  you  too  well  dressed,  and  too  fair  skinned  to  be  a poor 
stroller,  yet  seeing,  at  the  same  time,  that  you  had  a parcel,  I imag- 
ined that  you  must  be  some  one  attached  to  another  person — a for- 
eigner herself,  and  an  artist — oh ! a very  great  artist  is  she  whom  I 
wish  to  see,  and  whose  protection  would  be  my  salvation  and  my  hap- 
piness. Come,  mademoiselle,  confess  trulpj  You  live  at  some  neigh- 
boring chateau,  and  are  going  or  returning  with  some  little  commis- 
sion in  the  neighborhood,  and  you  know,  do  you  not — oh ! yes,  you 
must  know  the  Giants’  Castle  ? ” 

“ What,  Riesenberg  ? Are  you  going  to  Riesenberg  ? ” 

“ I am  trying,  at  least,  to  go  thither ; for  I have  lost  my  way  in  the 
midst  of  this  accursed  wood,  in  spite  of  all  the  directions  they  gave 
me  at  Klatau,  and  I do  not  know  how  to  get  out  of  it.  Fortunately, 
you  know  Riesenberg,  and  you  will  tell  me  if  I have  passed  it.” 

“ But  what  are  you  going  to  do  at  Riesenberg  ? ” 
u I am  going  to  see  the  Porporina.” 

" Indeed ! ” and  fearing  to  discover  herself  to  a stranger  who  might 
well  speak  of  her  at  the  Giants’  Castle,  Consuelo  asked  indifferently, 
— “ And  who  is  this  Porporina,  if  you  please?” 

“ What ! do  you  not  know  ? Alas  I I see  that  you  are  entirely  a 
stranger  in  this  country ; but  since  you  are  a musician,  and  know  the 
name  of  Fuchs,  you  must  also  know  that  of  Porpora  ? ” 

And  do  you  know  Porpora  ? ” 

“Not  yet;  and  it  is  for  that  end  that  I wish  to  obtain  the  patron- 
age of  his  beloved  and  famous  pupil,  the  Signora  Porporina.” 

‘ ‘ Tell  me  what  put  that  idea  into  your  head,  and  perhaps  I may 
try  with  you  to  approach  this  castle,  and  find  this  Porporina.” 

M I will  tell  you  my  whole  history.  I am,  as  I have  told  you,  the 
son  of  a worthy  wheelwright,  and  native  of  a little  hamlet  on  the  bor- 
ders of  Austria  and  Hungary.  My  father  is  sacristan  and  organist  in 
the  village,  and  my  mother,  who  was  cook  to  a nobleman  in  the 
neighborhood,  has  a fine  voice,  and  in  the  evening  when  their  work 
was  done  my  father  used  to  accompany  her  on  the  harp.  Thus  I 
naturally  acquired  a taste  for  music;  and  I remember  when  I was  a 
mere  child,  my  greatest  pleasure  was  to  play  my  part  at  these  family 
concerts,  by  scraping  upon  a piece  of  wood  with  a lath,  which  I im- 
agined to  be  a violin  and  bow,  and  from  which  I fancied  that  I was 
drawing  splendid  sounds.  Oh!  yes,  it  seems  to  me  yet,  that  my  be- 
loved sticks  were  not  voiceless,  and  that  a divine  voice,  which  the 
others  heard  not,  spread  itself  forth  around  me,  and  intoxicated  ma 
with  celestial  harmonies. 

“ Our  cousin  Franck,  whc  is  schoolmaster  at  Hamburg,  came  to 
visit  on  a day  when  I was  playing  on  my  imaginary  violin,  and  waa 
very  much  amused  at  the  ecstacy  in  wlich  I was  plunged.  He  as- 
sarted that  it  was  a sure  presage  of  an  extraordinary  musical  talent* 


80S 

end  1m  carried  me  to  Hamburg,  where,  for  three  years,  he  gave  mo  a 
▼ery  rough  musical  education  I assure  you.  How  many  beautiful 
organ  stops,  with  notes  and  flourishes,  has  he  not  executed  on  my 
ears  and  fingers  with  his  directing  rod,  in  order  to  make  me  Keep 
time.  Nevertheless  I was  not  to  be  disgusted.  I learned  to  read  and 
to  write.  I had  a real  violin,  on  which  I learned  the  elements  of 
music,  as  well  as  of  singing,  and  those  of  the  Latin  language.  I also 
made  as  rapid  progress  as  was-  possible,  with  a master  who  had  a 
little  more  courage  than  my  cousin  Franck. 

“ I was  about  eight  years  old  when  chance,  or  rather  Providence, 
in  whom,  as  a good  Christian,  I have  always  had  full  faith,  brought 
Master  Reuter,  the  chapel  master  of  the  cathedral  at  Vienna,  to  my 
cousin’s  house.  I was  introduced  to  him  as  a little  prodigy,  and  when 
I had  very  easily  read  off  a bit  of  music  before  him,  he  admitted  me 
to  his  friendship,  carried  me  with  him  to  Vienna,  and  had  me  entered 
as  a chorister  in  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Stephen’s. 

“ We  had  only  two  hours  a day  of  work  then,  and  the  rest  of  our 
time  given  up  to  ourselves,  we  were  allowed  to  vagabondise  at  our 
own  pleasure ; but  happily  my  passion  overpowered  both  the  tastes  for 
dissipation,  and  the  indolence  of  a child.  When  I was  playing  in  the 
public  squares  with  my  fellows,  no  sooner  did  I hear  the  notes  of  the 
organ,  than  I left  all  to  run  back  to  the  church  and  revel  in  the  songs 
and  harmonies.  I forgot  myself  whole  evenings  in  the  streets,  before 
the  windows  of  houses  whence  issued  the  interrupted  sounds  of  a 
concert,  or  even  the  melodious  accents  of  a single  voice.  I was  greedy 
of  knowing  and  understanding  whatever  came  to  my  ear.  Above  all, 
I wanted  to  compose.  Before  I was  thirteen,  without  the  knowledge 
of  a single  rule,  I ventured  to  write  a mass,  the  partition  of  which  I 
showed  to  Master  Reuter.  He  laughed  at  me,  and  advised  me  to 
learn  before  I should  begjn  to  create.  It  was  very  easy  for  him  to  say, 
— but  I had  no  means  of  paying  a master,  and  my  parents  were  too 
poor  to  pay  at  the  same  time  for  my  support  and  my  musical  educa- 
tion ! At  last,  I received  from  them  one  day  six  florins,  with  which 
I purchased  the  book  you  see,  and  that  of  Mattheson;  I began  to 
study  them  diligently,  and  with  intense  gratification.  My  voice  im- 
proved, and  at  length  came  to  be  considered  the  best  in  the  choir. 
In  the  midst  of  the  doubts  and  uncertainties  of  ignorance  which  I 
labored  hard  to  dispel,  I felt  that  my  brain  was  developing  itself,  and 
that  ideas  were  budding  within  me;  but  I was  approaching  the  age 
when,  in  conformity  with  the  rules  of  the  chapel,  I must  leave  the 
choir,  and  without  resources,  patronage,  and  masters,  I began  to  ask 
myself  whether  these  eight  years  of  teaching  in  the  cathedral  were 
not  going  to  prove  my  last  studies,  and  whether  I should  not  be  com- 
pelled to  return  home  to  my  parents  and  learn  the  trade  of  a wheel- 
wright. To  increase  my  vexation,  I saw  that  Master  Reuter,  instead 
of  treating  me  with  kindness,  or  interesting  himself  in  me,  was 
harsh  and  rough,  and  seemed  anxious  only  to  get  rid  of  me.  I knew 
not  the  cause  of  his  antipathy,  which  I am  sure  I never  merited. 
Some  of  my  companions  Were  so  flighty  as  to  say  that  he  was  jealous 
of  me,  because  he  found  in  my  essays  at  composition  a sort  of  reve- 
lation of  the  musical  instincts,  and  that  he  was  ever  wont  to  hate 
and  discourage  young  persons  in  whom  he  discovered  an  inspiration 
more  vivid  than  his  own.  I am  far  from  accepting  this  vain-glorious 
interpretation  of  my  disgrace,  but  I still  think  I made  a mistake  in 
ihowing  him  my  attempts,  and  that  he  took  me  for  an  impertinent 
blockhead,  and  an  ambitious  pretender.^ 


BIO 


COSSt'KIO, 


H Perhaps  so,”  said  Consuelo,  interrupting  his  narrative.  * At  ai, 
events,  old  teachers  do  not  like  pupils  who  seem  to  learn  quicker  than 
they  themselves  teach.  But  tell  me  your  name,  my  lad.” 

“ My  name  is  Joseph.” 
u Joseph  who  ? ” 

“ Joseph  Haydn.” 

* I will  bear  your  name  in  mind,  that  I may  see  what  opinion  1 
must  hold  of  your  master’s  aversion,  and  of  the  interest  with  whidk 
your  story  inspires  me,  in  case  one  day  you  should  turn  out  to  be  some* 
body.  Go  on  with  your  narrative,  I pray  you.” 

. Young  Haydn  continued  as  follows ; while  Consuelo,  struck  by  the 
similarity  of  their  fortunes,  both  poor — both  destined,  as  it  would  seem 
to  be,  artists,  gazed  attentively  at  the  countenance  and  expression  of 
the  chorister.  His  trivial  features  and  bilious  complexion,  took,  not- 
withstanding, at  times,  a singular  degree  of  animation,  as  he  became 
excited  by  his  narrative.  His  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  a quickness 
which  was  at  once  roguish  and  good-natured,  and  everything  in  hi* 
whole  manner,  both  of  acting  and  speaking,  announced  that  he  waa 
an  extraordinary  character. 


CHAPTER  LXY. 

u Whatever  might  be  the  causes  of  Master  Reuter’s  dislike  tome, 
he  at  all  events  showed  it  in  a very  harsh  manner,  and  for  a very  tri- 
fling fahlt.  I had  a pair  of  new  scissors,  and,  like  any  schoolboy,  I 
turned  upon  everything  that  came  ready  to  my  hand.  One  of  my 
comrades  had  his  back  turned  to  me,  and  his  long  pigtail  was  contin- 
ually sweeping  away,  as  fast  as  1 could  write  them,  the  notes  which 
my  chalk  described  on  my  slate.  A quick  and  fatal  idea  came  into  my 
head;  and  no  sooner  came  than  the  deed  was  done.  Crack!  the 
scissors  were  open — the  tail  lay  on  the  ground.  My  master’s  hawk’s 
eye  followed  my  every  motion ; and,  before  my  poor  companion  was 
aware  of  his  loss,  I was  reprimanded,  noted  with  a mark  of  disgrace, 
and  discharged  by  this  summary  process. 

“ I left  the  cathedral  school  at  seven  in  the  evening,  in  the  month 
of  November  of  last  year,  and  found  myself  in  the  square,  with  no 
money,  and  no  other  garment  than  that  which  I had  on  my  back.  I 
had  a moment  of  despair.  I imagined  to  myself,  on  being  thus  expel- 
led with  anger  and  disgrace,  that  I had  committed  some  enormous 
fault.  I began  to  cry  with  all  my  might  over  the  lock  of  hair  and  the 
end  of  ribbon  which  had  fallen  under  my  fatal  scissors.  My  comrade, 
whose  head  I had  thus  dishonored,  passed  me,  crying  also.  Never 
were  more  tears  shed,  or  remorse  wasted,  over  a Prussian  pigtail. 

“ That  night  I passed  on  the  pavement,  and  as  I was  sighing  the 
next  morning  over  the  necessity  and  impossibility  of  getting  some 
breakfast,  I was  accosted  by  Keller,  the  hair-dresser  of  the  school  of 
St.  Stephen’s.  As  soon  as  the  witty  Keller  saw  my  pitifhl  face,  re- 
turning as  he  was  from  dressing  Master  Reuter,  who  had  told  him  the 
whole  story,  he  burst  into  a violent  fit  of  laughter,  and  loaded  me 
with  sarcasms. 

“ * Hallo  t ’ said  he  as  soon  as  he  saw  me,  yet  afar  off,— 4 *o  hare  to 


C0H8UKL©, 


811 

&•  scourge  of  wigmakers,  the  enemy  in  general,  and  in  particular  of 
all  here,  who,  like  me,  make  it  their  business  to  tend  and  provide  for 
the  beauty  of  the  fair.  What,  hoi  my  little  executioner  of  pigtails, 
exterminator  of  top-knots,  come  here  ’till  I cut  off  all  your  fine  black 
hair,  to  replace  all  the  queues  which  are  destined  to  fall  oefore  your 
blows.*  I was  desperate,  furious ; I hid  my  face  in  my  hands,  and 
believing  myself  to  be  the  object  of  public  vengeance,  I was  going  to 
take  to  my  heels,  when  the  good  Keller  caught  me  by  the  arm,  ad- 
dressed me  kindly,  offering  to  take  me  honre  with  him,  give  me  the 
use  of  a garret  in  the  sixth  story,  his  wife  and  children  occupying  the 
fifth,  and  to  let  me  live  at  his  table  until  I should  find  some  employ- 
ment. 

“ I went  home  with  the  generous  Keller,  my  preserver,  my  second 
father ; and  beside  my  board  and  lodging,  poor  mechanic  as  he  was 
himself,  he  found  means  to  advance  me  a little  money  in  order  to  con- 
tinue my  studies.  1 hired  an  old  worm-eaten  pianoforte,  and  snugly 
stowed  in  my  garret  with  my  Fuchs  and  my  Mattheson,  I gave  myself 
up  without  restraint  to  my  mania  for  composition.  From  that  time 
I have  regarded  myself  as  favored  especially  by  Providence.  The  first 
six  sonatas  of  Emanuel  Bach  have  been  my  delight  during  this  winter, 
and  I believe  that  I understand  them  thoroughly.  At  the  same  time, 
as  if  to  recompense  me  for  my  zeal  and  perseverance,  heaven  has  per- 
mitted me  to  find  a little  occupation  by  which  to  live,  and  acquit  my- 
self of  my  obligations  toward  my  kind  host.  I play  the  organ  every 
Sunday,  in  the  chapel  of  Count  Haugwitz,  after  playing  my  part  of 
first  violin  in  the  church  of  the  Fathers  of  Mercy.  Moreover,  I have 
obtained  two  patrons : the  one  is  an  abbe,  who  writes  much  beautiful 
Italian  poetry,  and  who  is  greatly  esteemed  by  her  majesty  the  Queen 
Empress.  His  name  is  Mons.  Metastasio,  and  as  he  lives  in  the  same 
house  with  Keller  and  myself,  I give  lessons  to  a young  person  who  ia 
said  to  be  his  niece.  My  other  patron  is  monseigneur,  the  ambassa- 
dor, from  Venice.0 

“ Ah  I Signor  Komer,**  cried  Consuelo,  quickly. 

“Ah!  do  you  know  him?”  replied  Haydn.  “It  is  Monsieur  the 
Abbe  Metastatio,  who  introduced  me  to  his  house.  My  little  talent 
gave  satisfaction  there,  and  his  excellency  has  promised  to  procure 
me  lessons  from  Master  Porpora,  who  is  now  at  the  baths  of  Manen- 
dorf,  with  Madame  Wilhelmina,  the  wife  or  mistress  of  his  excellency. 
That  promise  raised  me  to  the  seventh  heaven.  To  learn  composition, 
the  pure  and  correct  principles  of  Italian  art,  to  be  the  pupil  of  so 
great  a professor,  of  the  first  singing  master  of  the  universe  I I con- 
sidered my  fortune  as  already  made.  I blessed  my  stars,  and  almost 
fancied  myself  already  a great  master.  But,  alas  I in  spite  of  his  ex- 
cellency’s kind  intentions,  his  promise  has  not  proved  as  easy  of  reali- 
zation as  I flattered  myself ; and  unless  I can  find  a more  powerful  re- 
commendation to  Porpora,  I fear  that  I shalknever  be  enabled  even 
to  approach  his  person.  He  is  said  to  be  very  eccentric;  and  the 
more  attentive,  generous,  and  kind  he  shows  himself  to  &ome  of  his 
pupils,  the  sterner  and  more  capricious  he  is  to  others.  It  seems  that 
Master  Reuter  is  regarded  as  nobody  by  Porpora,  and  1 tremble  at  the 
mere  idea  of  seeing  him.  Nevertheless,  though  he  refused  the  request 
#of  the  ambassador  concerning  me  point  blank,  and  has  declared  that 
he  will  take  no  more  pupils — as  I know  that  Monseigneur  Korner  will 
insist — I still  have  hopes,  and  I am  resolved  to  endure  the  most  cruel 
mortifications  patiently,  provided  that  he  will  teach  me  something 
while  he  scolds  me.” 


GONSUBLO. 


112 

“ Ton  hare  formed  a wise  resolution  in  that,”  said  Cotsuelo. 

4 The  manners  of  the  great  maestro  have  not  been  exaggerated  to 
you.  But  still  there  is  room  for  you  to  hope ; for  if  you  possess  pa- 
tience, absolute  submission,  and  a true  inclination  for  music,  as  I 
think  you  do,  if  you  do  not  lose  your  head  in  his  first  outbreaks  of 
temper,  and  if  you  succeed  in  showing  him  intelligence  and  rapidity 
of  judgment,  at  the  end  of  three  or  four  lessons,  I promise  you  that 
you  will  find  him  one  of  the  gentlest  and  most  conscientious  of  mas 
ters.  Perhaps  even,  if  your  heart  answers  to  your  intellect,  Porpora 
will  become  a solid  friend,  a just  and  generous  father  to  you.” 

44  Oh ! you  overwhelm  me  with  joy.  I see  clearly  that  you  must 
know  him:  you  ought  also  to  know  his  famous  pupil,  the  new 
Countess  of  Kudolstadt — La  Porporina.” 

44  But  what  have  you  ever  hear  about  Porporina,  or  what  do  you 
expect  from  her?  ” 

44 1 expect  a letter  from  her  to  Porpora,  and  her  patronage  will  be 
most  powerful  with  him  when  she  comes  to  Vienna,  which  she  will 
certainly  do  after  her  marriage  with  the  rich  Count  Rudolstadt.” 

44  When  did  you  hear  of  this  marriage  ? ” 

44  By  the  greatest  chance  in  the  world.  I must  tell  you  that  about  a 
month  since,  Keller  lost  a friend,  who  left  him  some  little  property  at 
Pilsen,  and  having  neither  the  time  nor  the  means  to  make  the  jour- 
ney, fearing  lest  the  legacy  should  not  make  up  for  the  loss  of  his  busi 
ness,  I offered  to  go  in  his  place,  and  have  happily  succeeded  in  real- 
izing a small  property  for  him.  Returning  from  Pilsen,  I passed  last 
night  at  a place  called  Klatau.  It  was  a market  day,  and  the  town 
was  full  of  people.  At  the  same  table  with  me  there  dined  a man 
whom  they  addressed  as  Dr.  Wetzelius,  the  greatest  glutton,  and 
greatest  gossip  I ever  met.  4 Do  you  know  the  news  ? ’ said  he,  to 
one  of  his  neighbors  at  table.  4 Count  Albert  of  Rudolstadt,  who  is 
mad,  arch-mad,  and  all  but  frantic,  is  going  to  marry  his  cousin’s 
music-mistress,  an  adventuress,  a beggar-girl,  who  is  said  to  have  been 
a low  actress  in  Italy,  and  who  ran  away  with  the  old  musician  Porpo- 
ra who,  becoming  disgusted  with  her,  packed  her  off  to  be  confined  at 
Riesenberg.  The  event  was  kept  rigidly  secret;  and  as  at  first  they 
could  not  understand  the  nature  of  the  malady  or  convulsions  of 
mademoiselle,  who  passed  for  being  very  virtuous,  I was  called  in,  to 
attend  a case  of  putrid  and  malignant  fever.  But  scarcely  had  I felt 
the  pulse  of  the  patient  before  Count  Albert,  who  doubtless  knew 
right  well  the  full  extent  of  her  virtue,  expelled  me  from  the  room 
with  violence,  and  would  not  suffer  me  to  return.  All  was  arranged 
quietly.  I believe  the  old  canoness  performed  the  office  of  accouch- 
eur ; the  poor  old  lady  had  never,  I fancy,  witnessed  such  a scene 
oefore.  The  child  has  disappeared,  but  that  which  is  the  most  wonder- 
full  of  all  is  that  the  young  count  who,  as  you  all  know,  cannot  keep  the 
run  of  time,  but  takes  months  for  years,  has  taken  it  into  his  head 
that  he  is  the  father  of  this  child,  and  spoke  with  such  energy  and  vio- 
lence to  the  family,  that  rather  tLian  see  him  relapse  into  madness, 
they  have  consented  to  his  beautiful  marriage.’ 

44  Oh ! horror ! infamy  I ” cried  Consuelo.  44  It  is  one  tissue' of  abom- 
inable calumnies,  and  revolting  absurdities.” 

44  Do  not  suppose  that  I believed  it  for  one  moment,”  said  Joseph 
Haydn.  44  The  face  of  that  old  doctor  was  so  malicious  and  foolish,  , 
that,  even  before  he  1 ad  been  contradicted,  I was  sure  he  was  uttering 
only  lies  and  follies.  But  scarcely  had  he  got  through  his  story,  before 


OOKICELO, 


818 


lf»  or  six  young  people  who  were  around  him  took  th*  young  lady7! 
part  It  was  who  should  praise  most  highly  the  beauty,  grace,  mod- 
e»ty,  intellect,  and  incomparable  talents  of  La  Porporina.  Every  one 
approved  of  the  match,  and  praised  the  old  count  for  consenting  to  it, 
while  Dr.  Wetzelius  was  treated  as  a babbler  and  a fool.  It  is  thui 
that  1 learned  the  truth,  and  as  it  is  said  that  Porpora  has  the  great- 
est regard  for  a pupil  to  whom  he  has  given  his  own  name,  I took  it 
into  my  head  to  go  to  Riesenberg  to  see  the  future,  or  the  new  count- 
ess— for  some  say  she  is  already  secretly  married,  to  avoid  giving  o£ 
fence  at  court— tell  her  my  history,  and  procure  her  interest  with  her 
illustrious  master.77 

Consuelc  remained  pensive  for  a moment ; for  his  last  words  con- 
cerning the  court  had  struck  her*;  but  quickly  returning  to  his  affairs, 
“ My  boy,”  said  she,  “ do  not  go  to  Riesenberg;  Porporina  is  not 
there.  She  is  not  married  to  the  Count  of  Rudolstadt,  and  it  is  even 
doubtful  whether  the  marriage  ever  will  take  place.  It  is  true,  that  it 
has  been  spoken  of,  but  Porporina,  although  she  has  the  deepest  re- 
gard and  esteem  for  Count  Albert,  did  not  think  that  she  ought  to  de- 
cide without  much  consideration,  on  a matter  so  serious.  She 
weighed  on  one  side  the  injury  she  would  do  to  so  illustrious  a family, 
ifi  perhaps  depriving  it  of  the  favor  of  the  empress,  and  the  consider- 
ation of  all  the  nobles  of  the  country;  and  on  the  other  hand,  the 
evil  she  would  do  herself  in  renouncing  the  exercise  of  the  noble  art 
which  she  had  studied  so  passionately  and  embraced  so  courageously. 
Wishing  therefore  to  consult  Porpora,  and  to  give  the  young  count 
time  to  see  whether  his  passion  would  stand  the  test  of  absence,  she 
suddenly  set  out  for  Vienna,  alone,  on  foot,  without  a guide  and 
almost  penniless,  but  with  the  hope  of  restoring  repose  and  reason  to 
him  who  loves  her,  and  carrying  with  her,  of  all  the  riches  which 
were  offered  to  her,  only  the  witness  of  her  conscience,  and  the  pride 
of  her  condition  as  an  artist.” 

u Oh  l she  is  a true  artist,  indeed.  She  must  have  a strong  head, 
and  a noble  soul,  to  have  so  acted, 77  cried  Joseph,  fixing  his  bright  eyes 
on  Oonsuelo ; “ and,  if  I do  not  err,  it  is  she  to  whom  I speak ; she  be- 
fore whom  I prostrate  myself.77 

“ It  is  she  who  offe-rs  you  her  hand,  and  with  it  her  friendship,  her 
counsel,  and  her  aid  with  Porpora.  Por  we  are  about  to  travel  to- 
gether, as  I perceive,  and  if  God  protect  us  together,  as  he  has  hith- 
erto protected  us  singly,  as  he  protects  all  who  put  their  trust  in  Him, 
we  shall  soon  be  at  Vienna,  and  we  will  take  our  lessons  of  the  same 
master.” 

“ Heaven  be  praised,”  cried  Haydn,  clasping  his  hands,  and  weep- 
ing for  joy,  as  he  raised  his  arms  enthusiastically  toward  heaven.  “ I 
was  well  convinced,  when  I looked  on  you  as  you  slept,  that  there  was 
something  supernatural  about  you,  and  that  my  life  and  my  destiny 
were  in  your  hands.” 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

Wan  the  young  people  had  made  a more  complete  acquaintance, 
ky  (going  orer  and  ever  again  the  various  details  of  their  situation  in 


814 


eCHSUELO. 


friendly  converse,  they  began  to  think  of  the  precautions  to  be  taktm, 
and  the  arrangements  made,  In  order  to  return  to  Vienna.  The  first 
thing  they  did  was  to  pull  out  their  purses,  and  count  their  money. 
Consuelo  was  still  the  richer  of  the  two ; but  their  funds  combined, 
were  at  the  most  sufficient  to  furnish  them  the  means  of  travelling 
leisurely  on  foot,  without  suffering  hunger,  or  sleeping  in  the  open  air. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  be  thought  of;  and  Consuelo  had  already 
made  up  her  mind  to  it ; but,  notwithstanding  the  philosophic  gravity 
she  maintained  on  that  head,  Joseph  was  anxious  and  pensive. 

“ What  is  the  matter  with  you?  ” said  she;  “ are  you  afraid  of  the 
embarrassment  of  my  company?  I would  lay  a wager  that  I walk 
better  than  you.” 

“ I doubt  not,”  he  replied,  “ that  you  do  everything  better  than  I. 
But  I am  fearful  and  alarmed,  when  I consider  that  you  are  young 
and  handsome,  that  all  eyes  will  be  turned  upon  you  covetously,  and 
that  I,  frail  and  delicate,  though  well  resolved  to  be  killed  in  your  de- 
fence, should  be  little  able  to  protect  you.” 

“ Of  what  are  you  thinking,  my  poor  boy  ? If  I were  handsome 
enough  to  rivet  the  eyes  of  ali  spectators,  do  you  not  know  that  a wo- 
man who  respects  herself  can  always  command  respect  by  her  counte- 
nance ? ” 

“ Whether  you  were  plain  or  handsome,  young  or  in  the  decline  of 
life,  impudent  or  modest,  you  would  not  be  in  safety  on  these  roads, 
covered  with  soldiers  and  vagabonds  of  all  kinds.  Since  peace  has 
been  made,  the  country  is  overflowed  with  soldiery  returning  to  their 
garrisons,  and,  more  than  all,  with  these  volunteer  adventurers,  who 
regard  themselves  as  privileged  individuals,  and  knowing  no  longer 
whither  to  look  for  fortune,  apply  themselves  to  pillaging  wayfarers 
laying  country  places  under  contribution,  and  treating  provinces  like  , 
conquered  countries.  Our  poverty  protects  us  from  them  in  that  view 
of  the  subject,  but  the  very  fact  that  you  are  a woman,  would  suffice, 
at  once  to  awaken  their  brutality.  I think  seriously  of  changing  our 
route,  and  instead  of  going  by  Piseck  and  Budweiss,  which  are  garri- 
sons offering  a continual  pretext  for  the  marching  and  countermarch- 
ing of  desperate  soldiers,  and  others  who  are  but  little  better,  have  an 
idea  that  we  shall  do  better  by  descending  the  course  of  the  Moldau, 
and  following  the  gorges  of  the  mountains,  which  are  almost  unin- 
habited, and  which  therefore  present  nothing  to  tempt  either  the  cu- 
pidity or  licentiousness  of  these  gentlemen.  We  will  pass  over  the 
river  to  Reidunan,  and  there  enter  Austria  at  once  by  way  of 
Friestadt.  Once  in  the  territories  of  the  empire,  we  shall  be  protected 
by  a police  less  impotent  than  that  of  Bohemia.” 

“ And  do  you  know  the  road  ? ” 

“ I do  not  even  know  whether  there  is  a road ; but  I have  a little 
map  in  my  pocket,  and  I had  laid  out  my  plans,  when  I left  Pilsen,  to 
try  and  return  by  these  mountains,  in  order  to  change  my  road,  and 
aee  a little  more  of  the  country.” 

M Well,  so  be  it.  I think  your  idea  is  a good  one,”  said  Consuelo, 
looking  at  the  map  which  Joseph  had  just  opened.  “There  are  foot- 
paths everywhere  for  foot  passengers,  and  cottages  where  they  w*H 
receive  sober  people  for  a remuneration.  I see  in  fact  that  there  is  a 
chain  of  mountains  which  leads  us  to  the  source  of  the  Moldau,  and 
thence  down  the  whole  length  of  the  river.” 

“ It  if  the  great  Boehmer-wald,  the  highest  summits  of  which  are 
h that  region,  and  form  the  frontier  between  Bavaria  and  Bohemia 


COHSUELG 


m 

We  shall  arrive  there  easily  by  keeping  along  the  ridges,  which  will 
continually  show  us  that  the  valleys  to  the  right  and  left  descend 
into  one  or  the  other  of  these  two  provinces.  Since,  heaven  be 
praised!  I have  no  more  to  do  with  that  odious  Giants’  Castle,  I am 
quite  sure  that  I can  guide  you  aright,  and  without  making  you  go 
over  more  ground  than  is  necessary.” 

“Let  us  set  forth,  then,”  said  Consuelo,  “I  feel  myself  perfectly 
rested.  Sleep  and  your  good  bread  have  restored  me  all  my  strength, 
and  I can  easily  go  a couple  of  miles  farther  to-day.  Moreover,  I 
am  in  haste  to  remove  myself  farther  from  this  neighborhood,  where 
I am  in  constant  apprehension  of  meeting  some  face  that  I know.” 
“ Wait  a moment,”  said  Joseph.  “ There  is  a strange  idea  that  has 
Just  come  into  my  head.” 

“What  is  it?” 

“ If  you  would  have  no  reluctance  to  dress  yourself  in  boy’s  clothes, 
your  incognito  would  be  made  safe,  and  you  would  escape  many  of 
the  disagreeable  remarks  that  will  be  made  at  our  halts  on  the  score 
of  you,  a young  girl,  travelling  alone  in  company  with  a youth.” 

“ The  idea  is  not  a bad  one;  but  you  forget  we  are  not  rich  enough 
to  make  any  purchases.  Besides,  where  should  I find  clothes  to  fit 
me?” 

“ Listen.  I should  not  have  mentioned  it,  if  I had  not  felt  myself 
able  to  put  it  into  play.  We  are  precisely  of  the  same  height,  which 
does  more  credit  to  you,  than  it  does  to  me;  and  I have  in  my  wallet 
a full  suit,  perfectly  new,  which  will  disguise  you  admirably.  This  is 
the  history  of  the  suit  I speak  of.  It  is  a present  from  my  good 
mother,  who,  thinking  to  make  me  a very  useful  gift,  and  wishing  to 
know  that  I was  properly  equipped  to  present  myself  at  the  embassy, 
and  to  give  lessons  to  young  ladies,  had  a village  costume  made  for 
me,  the  most  elegant  in  our  part  of  the  world.  Doubtless,  it  is  a pic- 
turesque garb,  and  the  stuffs  are  well  chosen,  as  you  shall  see ; but 
conceive  the  effect  I should  have  produced  at  the  embassy,  and  the  ir- 
repressible laughter  of  the  niece  of  the  Abbe  Metastasio,  if  I had  made 
my  appearance  in  this  rustic  cassock,  and  these  loose  plaited  panta- 
loons. I thanked  my  good  mother  for  her  gift,  and  determined  to  sell 
it  to  some  peasant  who  wanted  a best  suit,  or  to  some  strolling  actor. 
It  is  for  this  that  I brought  it  with  me;  but  happily  I have  not  been 
able  to  dispose  of  it,  for  the  folk  in  this  country  swear  it  is  out  of 
date  and  enquire  whether  it  is  Polish  or  Turkish.” 

“ Well,  the  opportunity  has  come,”  said  Consuelo,  laughing.  “ Tour 
idea  is  excellent,  and  the  strolling  actress  will  suit  herself  to  your 
Turkish  dress,  the  more  easily  that  it  is  very  like  a short  petticoat.  I 
will  buy  this,  therefore,  of  you,  on  credit  be  it  understood ; or,  rather, 
I want  you  to  be  the  keeper  of  our  privy  purse,  and  to  let  me  know 
the  sum  of  our  expenditures  when  we  come  to  Vienna.” 

“ Wo  shall  see  abou?  that,”  said  Joseph,  putting  the  purse  in  his 
pocket,  and  promising  nimself  that  he  would  not  receive  any  price. 

“ It  only  remains  now  to  see  whether  it  will  fit  you.  I will  go  arid 
hide  myself  in  the  woods,  and  do  you  enter  into  the  recesses  of  these 
rocks.  They  will  furnish  you  with  a secure  and  spacious  dressing 
room.” 

“ Go  an  1 make  your  appearance  on  the  stage,”  said  Consuelo, 
Uugbiag,  M I am  going  behind  the  scenes.” 

And  withdrawing  behind  the  cover  of  the  rocks,  while  her  compan* 
ton  respectfully  withdrew  from  the  vicinity,  she  proceeded  to  effect  hm 


®0N8tJSL0, 


r 


816 

transformation.  The  spring  served  her  for  a mirror  when  she  eattt 
out  from  her  tiring-room,  and  it  was  not  without  a sense  of  pleasure 
that  she  saw  reflected  in  it,  as  handsome  a little  peasant  of  the  Scla- 
vonic race,  as  ever  sprung  from  that  wild  brood.  Her  pliant  and 
slender  waist  was  perfectly  untrammeled  by  the  loose  red  woollen 
girdle ; and  her  leg,  free  in  its  play  as  that  of  a young  fawn,  showed 
itself  modestly  to  a little  way  above  the  instep,  from  the  large  folds 
of  the  pantaloons.  Her  black  hair  which  she  had  never  condescend- 
ed to  powder,  had  been  cut  short  during  her  illness,  and  curled  natu- 
rally close  round  her  face.  She  ran  her  fingers  through  it  to  give  it 
something  of  the  neglected  air,  which  should  befit  a peasant  boy ; and 
wearing  her  costume  with  the  ease  of  one  used  to  the  stage,  she  even 
found  means,  thanks  to  her  talent  for  mimicry,  to  put  on  an  expres- 
sion full  of  wild  simplicity,  and  felt,  at  a glance,  that  she  was  so  well 
disguised,  that  courage  and  confidence  returned  to  her  on  the  in- 
stant. As  is  often  the  case  with  actors,  so  soon  as  they  have  put  on 
their  costume,  she  felt  herself  in  her  place,  and  identified  herself  with 
the  part  she  was  going  to  play  so  completely,  that  she  felt,  as  it  were, 
some  degree  of  the  heedlessness  and  pleasure  of  an  innocent  roving 
life ; some  of  the  gaiety,  vigor  and  freedom  of  body  which  belongs  to 
a boy  whose  school  is  by  the  hedge-side. 

She  had  to  whistle  three  times,  before  Haydn,  who,  in  his  fear  of 
shocking  her  delicacy,  had  withdrawn  a little  farther  than  was  neces- 
sary, came  back  to  her.  When  he  did  so,  he  uttered  a cry  of  surprise 
and  admiration  at  seeing  her  thus,  and  although  he  had  expected  to 
find  her  disguised,  he  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes  at  the  first  glance. 
Her  transformation  rendered  Consuelo  even  handsomer  than  before, 
and  at  the  same  time  gave  her  an  entirely  different  aspect  in  the  im- 
agination of  the  young  musician. 

The  pleasure  which  the  beauty  of  a woman  produces  on  a very 
young  man,  is  always  in  some  sort  mixed  with  a sort  of  fear;  and  the 
dress  which  makes  woman,  even  to  the  least  chary  eyes,  a veiled  and 
mysterious  being,  has  much  to  do  with  that  impression.  Joseph  had 
a pure  and  unpolluted  spirit,  and  was  not  only  a modest  but  a timid 
vouth.  When  first  he  beheld  Consuelo  sleeping  by  the  fountain,  he 
had  been  dazzled  by  her  beauty,  motionless  as  that  of  a statue*  and 
animated  only  by  the  bright  sunbeams  which  poured  down  upon  her. 
While  he  conversed  with  her,  he  was  conscious  of  emotions  unknown 
before,  which  he  had  attributed  only  to  the  enthusiasm  and  joy  pro- 
duced by  so  happy  an  encounter.  But  in  the  quarter  of  an  hour 
which  elapsed  during  her  mysterious  toilet,  he  had  experienced  violent 
palpitations,  as  the  first  incomprehensible  disturbance  returned  upon 
him, so  that  he  had  some  difficulty  in  preserving  an  unchanged  aspect 
and  demeanor. 

The  change  of  costume  which  had  succeeded  so  perfectly,  that  it 
might  have  passed  for  an  actual  change  of  sex,  suddenly  changed  all 
the  sensations  of  the  young  man,  and  he  no  longer  felt  anything  but 
the  impulse  of  fraternal  affection  towards  this  charming  and  agreea- 
ble travelling  companion.  The  same  ardent  desire  to  roam  and  see 
the  country,  the  same  security  as  to  the  perils  of  the  road,  the  same 
sympathetic  gaiety  which  animated  Consuelo  at  this  ifistant,  took 
possession  of  him  likewise ; and  they  set  forth  on  the  journey  through 
the  woods  and  meadows,  as  light  as  two  birds  of  passage. 

Nevertheless,  after  a few  steps,  Joseph  remembered  that  *he  wa» 
mi  n boy,  and  seeing  that  she  carried  her  little  packet  of  clothes,  aug 


C0H8UB10, 


817 

Muted  by  the  woman’s  garb  which  she  had  Just  removed,  on  the  end 
rtf  a stick  across  her  shoulder,  he  insisted  on  relieving  her  of  it.  There- 
in a contest  arose.  Consuelo  insisted  that,  with  his  own  knapsack, 
his  violin,  and  his  Gradus  ad  Parnassum,  Joseph  was  sufficiently 
loaded.  Joseph,  on  the  other  hand,  swore  that  he  would  put  the 
whole  of  Consuelo’s  parcel  into  his  knapsack,  and  that  she  should 
carry  nothing.  She  was  compelled  to  yield,  but  in  order  that  sha 
might  seem  to  be  carrying  something,  he  consented  that  she  should 
carry  the  violin  in  a sling. 

“ Do  you  know,”  said  Consuelo,  in  order  to  bring  him  to  yield  this 
point,  “ that  I look  as  if  I were  your  servant,  or  at  least  your  guide, 
for  I am  a peasant  at  a glance,  while  you  are  a citizen  ? ” 

“ What  sort  of  citizen?”  asked  Haydn,  laughing;  “I  have  not  a 
bad  cut,  certainly,  for  Keller,  the  barbers  boy.”  And  as  he  spoke,  tha 
young  man  could  not  help  feeling  a little  annoyance  at  being  unabla 
to  show  himself  to  Consuelo  in  something  better  than  his  travel- 
stained  and  sun-bleached  attire. 

“No!”  said  Consuelo,  laughing,  “ you  look  more  like  the  prodigal 
son  of  some  good  family  returning  home  with  his  gardener’s  boy,  the 
comrade  of  his  frolics.” 

“ By  the  way,  I think  we  had  better  hit  upon  some  parts  in  accord- 
ance with  our  situation,”  replied  Joseph.  “We  can  only  pass  for 
what  we  are — at  least  for  the  present— poor  travelling  artists ; and  as  it 
is  the  custom  of  the  profession  to  dress  one’s  self  as  he  can,  according 
to  the  means  he  finds  and  the  money  he  earns,  as  we,  after  the  profes* 
sors  in  our  line,  wearing,  about  the  country,  the  undress  of  a marquis 
or  of  a soldier,  so  there  will  be  nothing  odd  in  my  wearing  the  seedy 
black  coat  of  a second-rate  professor,  or  in  your  adopting  the  garb  of 
a Hungarian  peasant,  though  it  be  strange  hereabout.  We  can  even 
say,  if  questioned  about  it,  that  we  have  recently  made  a tour  in  that 
part  of  the  country,  and  I can  talk  to  the  point  about  the  celebrated 
village  of  Rohran  which  no  ctjie  ever  heard  of,  and  the  splendid  tcwn 
of  Hamburgh,  which  no  one  cares  a farthing  about.  As  for  you,  since 
your  pretty  little  accent  will  always  betray  you,  you  had  better  not 
deny  that  you  are  an  Italian  singer.” 

“ True  enough ; and  we  had  better  have  travelling  names  too — it  is 
usual.  I can  suit  myself  with  yours,  for,  according  to  my  Italian 
habit,  I ought  to  call  you  Beppo,  which  is  short  for  Joseph.” 

“ Call  me  whatever  you  will ; I have  the  advantage  of  being  as  little 
known  under  one  name  as  under  another.  With  you  it  is  different. 
You  must  have  one;  which  will  you  choose?  ” 

“The  first  Venetian  abbreviation  that  comes — Nello — Maso — Ren- 
«o — Zoto — oh!  no,  not  that,”  she  cried,  recollecting  herself  as  she 

cughtleesly  mentioned  the  childish  abbreviation  of  Anzoleto. 

“ Why  not  that?  ” asked  Joseph,  struck  by  her  energetic  manner. 

“Because  it  will  bring  me  bad  luck:  they  say  there  are  names 
which  do  so.” 

“ Well,  how  shall  we  baptize  you?  ” 

“ Rertoni.  It  is  an  Italian  name-  at  all  events,  and  a sort  of  dinainu- 
tive  c ' Albert r 

“II  Signor  Bertonii  That  sounds  well,”  saia  Joseph,  forcing  a 
smile;  but  this  recollection  of  her  noble  lover,  on  Consp^lo’s  part, 
gave  him  a pang.  He  looked  back  at  her  walking  absg  secure  and  at 
her  ease;  and,  “ by-the-by? ” he  said,  at  sonao  e himself,  “ I fir* 

got  that  it  is  a boy.” 


tis 


i - 

eoxciKia, 


CHAPTER  LXYIL 

Tbtet  soon  reached  the  skirts  of  the  wood  and  took  their  course 
towards  the  south-east.  Consuelo  walked  bareheaded,  and  Joseph, 
though  he  saw  that  the  sun  was  scorching  her  clear  fair  skin,  could 
not  remedy  it.  His  own  hat  was  not  new  and  he  could  not  offer  it, 
and  not  choosing  to  display  a useless  anxiety  he  would  not  speak,  but 
taking  his  hat  off  suddenly,  he  put  it  under  his  arm. 

u That  is  a queer  notion,”  said  she  to  him.  “Do  you  find  the  sky 
cloudy  and  the  plain  overshadowed  ? That  makes  me  remember  that 
my  head  is  bare,  and  as  I have  not  always  possessed  all  luxuries,  I 
know  how  to  help  myself.”  As  she  spoke  thus,  she  snatched  a branch 
of  wild  vine  from  a neighboring  thicket,  and  rolling  it  round  itself, 
made  herself  a sort  of  green  turban. 

“ Now  she  looks  like  a muse,”  thought  Joseph,  “ and  the  boy  is 
gone  again.”  But  ere  long  they  passed  a village  in  which  they  found 
one  of  those  country  shops  at  which  you  can  buy  everything,  and 
going  into  it  suddenly  before  she  could  anticipate  him,  he  bought  one 
of  those  straw  hats  with  broad  brims  turned  up  at  the  side,  whjph  are 
worn  by  the  peasants  of  the  valleys  of  the  Danube. 

“ If  you  begin  plunging  into  these  luxuries,”  she  said,  as  she  tried 
on  her  new  head-dress,  “ our  bread  will  give  out  before  we  reach  our 
Journey’s  end.” 

“ Your  bread  give  out,”  cried  Joseph,  quickly.  “ I would  rather 
beg  of  the  people  in'  the  streets ; I would  rather  turn  somersets  in 
the  public  places — what  would  I not  rather  do  ? — No,  you  shall  want 
nothing  while  you  are  with  me.”  Then  seeing  that  Consuelo  was 
somewhat  astonished  at  this  outbreak,  he  added,  trying  to  fail  back 
upon  good-fellowship,  “ Look  you,  Signor  Bertoni,  my  prospects  de- 
pend on  you,  my  fortunes  are  in  your  hand,  and  it  is  my  interest  to 
bring  you  safely  home  to  Master  Porpofa.” 

The  idea  of  her  companion  falling  suddenly  in  love  with  her,  now 
came  into  Consuelo’s  head.  In  fact,  modest  and  simple-minded  wo- 
men seldom  think  of  such  things  until  they  occur.  Besides  which, 
Consuelo  was  two  years  older  than  Haydn,  and  he  was  so  small  and 
slight  that  he  scarce  looked  above  fifteen,  and  though  she  knew  him 
to  be  past  that  age,  still,  as  even  very  young  girls  are  apt  to  regard 
men  younger  than  themselves,  she  looked  on  Haydn  as  a mere  boy. 
Nevertheless,  she  saw  that  he  was  unusually  affected,  and  once  catch- 
ing his  eyes  steadfastly  fixed  upon  her  own,  she  said  frankly,  “ What 
is  the  matter  with  you,  friend  Beppo  ? It  seems  to  me  that  you  are 
full  of  cares ; and  I cannot  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  my  company  em- 
barrasses you.” 

“ Say  not  so,”  he  cried,  with  evident  vexation.  “ To  say  so  is  to 
ihow  that  yon  have  no  esteem,  no  confidence  in  me,  which  I would 
buy  at  my  life’s  fee.” 

“ If  it  be  so,  be  not  so  sad ; that  is  to  say,  if  you  have  no  cause  of 
•adness  but  those  you  have  named  to  me.” 

Joseph  fell  into  a dull  silence,  and  they  walked  a good  way  before 
he  bad  courage  to  break  it ; but  feeling  at  length  that  every  moment 
rendered  it  more  difficult  to  do  so,  and  fearing  that  the  cause  wouln 
be  suspected,  he  made  a great  effort  and  said,  “ Do  yov  Know  what  f 
have  been  thinking  about  very  seriously  ? " 


e jnsi'eio.  819 

* I do  not  even  guess,”  sa  d Consuelo,  who,  absorbed  In  her  em 
thoughts,  had  not  even  noticed  Joseph’s  silence. 

* T was  thinking,  that  as  we  journey  together,  if  it  would  not  bore 
you,  you  might  teach  me  Italian.  I began  to  read  it  this  winter,  but 
naving  no  one  to  teach  me  the  pronunciation,  I dare  not  speak  a 
word  before  you.  Nevertheless  I understand  what  I read,  and  if,  at 
we  travel  along,  you  would  be  so  good  as  to  shake  off  my  mauvaise 
horde , and  to  correct  me  when  I err,  I believe  my  ear  is  sufficiently 
musical  to  catch  the  accent  ere  long.” 

“ Oh ! with  all  my  heart,”  said  Consuelo,  “ I delight  above  all 
things  in  allowing  no  moment  of  life  to  pass  without  learning  some- 
thing; and  as  we  learn  in  the  very  act  of  teaching,  it  must  needs  be 
very  good  for  us  both  to  practice  the  pronunciation  of  the  language 
which  is  par  excellence  that  of  music.  You  fancy  that  I am  an 
Italian,  but  I am  not,  although  I speak  it  with  scarcely  any  accent; 
but  I pronounce  it  much  the  most  truly  when  I sing,  and  whenever 
I find  any  difficulty  occurring  to  you,  I will  sing  the  words.  I am 
satisfied  that  we  never  pronounce  ill  but  because  we  do  not  under- 
stand well.  If  the  par  clearly  detects  the  exact  shade  of  sound,  it  is 
but  an  effort  of  memory  to  repeat  it.” 

“ It  will  then  be  at  once  a lesson  in  Italian  and  in  singing,”  cried 
Joseph,  “ and  a lesson,  too,  which  is  to  last  fifty  leagues.  Ah ! by  my 
honor,  long  life  to  art,  the  least  dangerous  and  the  least  ungrateful 
of  all  amourettes .” 

The  lesson  began  at  once,  and  Consuelo,  who  had  at  first  hard  work 
to  avoid  bursting  out  laughing  at  every  word  J oseph  uttered  in  Italian, 
soon  began  to  wonder  at  ths  quickness  and  correctness  with  which 
he  caught  the  true  sounds.  Nevertheless  the  young  musician  who 
was  ardently  desirous  of  hearing  her  singing,  had  recourse  to  a little 
stratagem  to  make  her  do  so ; he  pretendecT  to  be  unable  to  give  the 
perfect  fulness  and  openness  of  sound  to  the  Italian  a,  and  he  sang  a 
phrase  of  Leo’s,  in  which  the  word  Felicita  is  several  times  repeated. 
Then  Consuelo  without  stopping,  or  losing  her  breath  any  more 
than  if  she  had  been  sitting  at  her  piano,  sang  it  to  him  several  times. 
At  those  full  and  generous  notes,  so  penetrating,  that  no  others,  at 
that  day,  could  compare  with  them,  the  world  through,  Joseph  actu- 
ally shuddered,  as  he  rubbed  his  hands  together,  and  uttered  a low 
and  passionate  exclamation  of  delight. 

“ It  is  your  turn  to  try  it  now,”  cried  Consuelo,  without  observing 
his  ecstacies. 

Haydn  tried  the  phrase,  and  executed  it  so  well  that  his  young  in- 
structress clapped  her  hands,  crying,  good-naturedly,  “Wonderfully 
well  done.  You  learn  quickly,  and  you  have  a magnificent  voice.” 

“ You  may  say  what  you  will  to  me  on  that  head,”  replied  Joseph, 
“ but  it  seems  to  me  that  I shall  never  dare  to  speak  to  you  of  your- 
self.” 

“ And  wherefpre  so  ? ” said  Consuelo.  But  as  she  turned  toward* 
him  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  that  he  was  clasping 
his  hands  together  until  the  bones  cracked,  as  frivolous  boys,  or  very 
enthusiastic  men,  will  do  at  times. 

‘ Do  not  let  us  sing  any  more,”  said  she.  “ Here  comes  some  men 
on  horseback  to  seek  us.” 

“By  no  means!  Keep  silo  ice ! ” answered  Joseph,  still  half  beside 
himself.  “Do  not  let  then,  hear  you,  for  they  will  dismount,  and 

worship  you  if  they  do.” 


820 


OONSUBLO. 

" I have  no  great  fear  of  their  music-mania— they  are  butcher  boyf 
irith  caltes  slung  behind  them.” 

The  rest  of  the  day  passed  in  alternations  of  serious  studies  and 
Slvely  conversation.  Agitated  as  he  was,  Joseph  was  very  happy,  and 
was  ignorant  himself  wb  3ther  he  was  one  of  the  most  trembling  wor- 
shippers of  beauty,  or  o le  of  the  most  radiant  adorers  of  art.  Con- 
suelo  occupied  all  his  thoughts,  and  transformed  his  whole  existence. 
Towards  evening  he  perceived  that  she  dragged  her  steps  heavily,  and 
that  her  pleasure  was  overpowered  by  weariness.  It  is  true  that  for 
several  hours  notwithstanding  the  frequent  halts  they  had  made  in 
shady  spots  by  the  way-side,  she  had  been  almost  broken  by  fatigue, 
but  she  cared  not  for  that,  and  even  if  it  had  not  been  so,  she  would 
have  desired  to  obtain  distraction  from  her  mental  sufferings  in  quick 
motion,  and  even  in  forced  gaiety.  The  first  shades  of  evening,  as 
they  overspread  the  country  with  a gloq%iy  hue,  brought  back  the 
dismal  coloring  of  her  soul,  which  she  had  so  bravely  combated.  She 
thought  of  the  sad  evening  that  was  about  to  commence  at  the  Giants1 
Castle,  and  of  the  night,  terrible,  perhaps,  and  horrid,  which  Albert 
was  about  to  undergo.  As  the  idea  struck  lier,  she  stopped  involun- 
tarily at  the  foot  of  a great  wooden  cross  standing  on  a bare  hillock, 
which  indicated  the  theatre  of  some  traditionary  miracle  or — crime. 

“Alas!  you  are  more  weary  than  you  will  admit,”  said  Joseph. 
* But  our  day’s  tramp  is  nearly  at  an  end,  for  I see  the  lights  of  a ham- 
let glittering  from  the  gorge  of  that  ravine.  Perhaps  you  think  I have 
not  the  strength  to  carry  you  —yet  if  you  would ” 

“ My  dear  friend,”  said  she,  u you  are  very  proud  of  your  sex,  I beg 
you  to  have  a little  more  faith  in  mine,  and  to  believe  that  I have  more 
•trength  left  to  my  share,  than  you  to  jour  own.  I am  a little  out  of 
breath  with  climbing  that  steep  path  so  much ; and  if  I rest  myself,  it 
is  only  that  I want  to  sing.” 

“ Heaven  be  praised,”  cried  Joseph.  “ Sing  here  then  at  the  foot 
of  the  cross,  and  I will  kneel  down  here.  Nevertheless,  suppose  this 
should  tire  you  more  ? ” 

“ It  will  not  be  so  long,”  said  Consuelo ; “ but  a fancy  has  taken  me 
to  sing  a verse  of  a canticle  which  my  mother  used  to  make  me  sing 
with  her,  night  and  morning,  in  the  open  country,  whenever  we  fell 
in  with  a chapel  or  a cross  planted  like  this  at  the  intersection  of  four 
ways.” 

Consuelo’s  idea  was  even  more  romantic  than  she  was  willing  to 
admit.  As  she  thought  of  Albert,  she  reflected  upon  that  strange  and 
half  supernatural  faculty  which  he  had  of  seeing  and  hearing  filings 
at  a distance ; she  thought  that  at  this  very  hour  he  was  probably 
thinking  of  her,  perhaps  even  saw  her;  and  half  dreaming  that  she 
could  alleviate  his  sorrows  by  addressing  him  in  a sympathetic  song, 
sent  through  distance  and  darkness,  she  mounted  the  pile  of  stones 
which  formed  the  abutment  of  the  cross.  Then  turning  toward  that 
part  of  the  horizon  behind  which  lay  Kiesenberg,  she  sung  at  the  full 
compass  of  her  voice  the  first  stanza  of  the  Spanish  canticle 

"Consnelo  de  mi  alma,'*  eta. 

J My  God  1 My  God ! ” said  Haydn  to  himself,  as  she  finished 
%er  song.  “I  never  heard  singing  before;  I knew  not  what 
singing  is.  Can  there  be  other  human  voices  like  to  this?  Shall  I 
•?«  again  hear  anything  c imparable  to  what  you  have  revealed  to 


eoasosLo.  821 

no  to-day  t Oh ! music ! holy  music ! O genius  c f the  art ! how  thoq 
tnflamest,  how  thou  terriflest  me.” 

Consuelo  descended  from  the  stone  on  which  she  had  stood  display- 
ing, like  a Madonna,  the  elegant  outline  of  her  figure  in  profile,  re- 
lieved against  the  clear  dark  blue  of  the  covering  sky.  In  her  turn, 
inspired,  after  Albert’s  manner,  she  fancied  she  could  see  him, 
through  woods,  across  mountains,  over  valleys,  seated  upon  the 
Scheckenstein,  calm,  resigned,  and  filled  with  a holy  hope.  “ He  has 
heard  me,”  she  thought  within  herself ; “ he  has  recognised  my  voice 
and  the  song  which  he  loves.  He  has  understood  me,  and  will  now 
return  to  the  castle,  embrace  his  father,  and  perhaps  enjoy  a quiet 
night’s  repose.” 

“ All  goes  well,”  she  added,  speaking  to  Joseph,  but  without  notic- 
ing his  gaze  of  ardent  admiration.  Then,  turning  back,  she  kissed 
the  rough  wood  of  the  rustic  cross.  Perhaps  at  that  moment,  by  some 
strange  approximation,  Albert  felt  an  electrical  commotion  which  un- 
bent the  spring  of  his  gloomy  will,  and  sank  into  the  most  mysterious 
depths  of  his  being  the  delights  of  a heavenly  tranquillity.  Perhaps 
it  was  at  that  very  moment  that  he  fell  into  the  deep  and  healthful 
sleep,  in  which  his  father,  an  uneasy  and  easily  awaked  sleeper,  found 
him  buried  on  the  following  morn  at  daybreak. 

The  hamlet,  the  fires  of  which  they  had  perceivea  m the  distance, 
was  no  more  than  a great  farm,  where  they  were  received  with  hospi- 
tality. A family  of  honest  laborers  were  eating  out  of  doors,  on  a 
rough  wooden  table,  at  which  they  made  room  for  them  both,  without 
difficulty  and  without  haste.  No  questions  were  asked  them.  In  fact 
they  were  hardly  looked  at.  The  good  folk,  wearied  with  a long  and 
hot  day’s  toil,  took  their  meal  in  silence,  absorbed  in  the  enjoyment  of  a 
plentiful  though  simple  meal.  Consuelo  thought  her  supper  delicious ; 
Joseph  thought  nothing  about  it,  for  he  was  absorbed  in  admiring 
Consuelo’s  pale  and  noble  head,  contrasted  with  the  coarse  sunburned 
features  of  the  peasants,  gentle  and  dull  as  those  of  the  great  oxen 
which  fed  around  them,  and  which  scarce  made  more  noise  than  they, 
as  they  chewed  the  cud  slowly  with  their  ponderous  jaws.  Each  of 
the  company  retired  silently,  so  soon  as  he  was  satisfied  with  eating, 
having  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  at  once  went  to  sleep,  leaving 
the  strangers’  appetites  to  prolong  at  will  the  pleasures  of  tne  table. 
The  women  who  had  waited  on  these  sat  down  in  their  places,  when 
they  had  finished,  and  applied  themselves  to  supper,  with  their  child- 
ren. More  animated  and  more  curious  than  the  men,  they  detained 
and  questioned  the  young  travellers.  It  was  Joseph’s  part  to  make 
up  their  story,  but  he  scarcely  departed  from  the  truth,  when  he  told 
them  that  he  and  his  companion  were  two  poor  strolling  musicians. 
“ What  a pity  that  it  is  not  Sunday,”  said  one  of  the  younger  girls. 
“You  could  have  played  for  us  to  dance.”  Then  they  paid  a great 
deal  of  attention  to  Consuelo,  whom  they  examined  very  closely, 
thinking  her  a very  pretty  boy ; while  she,  to  support  her  character, 
looked  back  at  them  with  a confident  and  steady  eye.  She  had  sigh- 
ed, for  one  instant,  almost  in  envy  of  that  peaceful  patriarchal  life, 
from  which  her  own  active  and  locomotive  profession  must  ever  keep 
her  aloof ; but  when  ske  observed  these  poor  women  standing  erect 
behind  their  husbands,  waiting  on  them  respectfully,  and  then  gaily 
eating  their  leavings,  some  nursing  their  little  ones,  and  others  already 
slaves,  through  the  force  of  instinct,  to  their  boys,  of  whom  they 
teemed  to  think  more  than  of  themselves  or  of  their  little  girls,  she 


*23 


CJOH3UKLO, 


ceased  to  see  any  thing  in  these  good  cu.tivators  of  the  earth,  beyond 
mere  subjects  of  necessity  and  hunger.  The  males  chained  down  to 
the  soil,  valets  of  their  ploughs  and  their  cattle — the  females  chained 
down  to  the  master,  that  is  to  say,  to  man,  cloistered  in  the  house, 
servants  in  perpetuity,  and  condemned  to  incessant  labcr  amii  the 
sufferings  and  toils  of  maternity — then  this  apparent  serenity  appear- 
ed to  Consuelo  only  the  debasement  arising  from  stupidity,  »r  the  tor- 
por arising  from  hunger,  and  she  said,  “ Better  to  be  an  artist,  cr  a 
Bohemian  wanderer,  than  either  lord  or  peasant ; since  to  the  posses- 
sion of  a rood  of  ground  or  of  a sheaf  of  wheat,  either  the  unjust 
tyranny  or  the  mournful  enslavement  of  avarice  attaches, — viva  ia 
liberta  I 99  she  said  to  J oseph,  to  whom  she  expressed  her  ideas  in 
Italian,  while  the  women  were  washing  and  arranging  the  crockery 
ware  with  a great  noise,  while  an  old  good  wife  was  turning  her  spin- 
ning wheel  with  the  regularity  of  a machine. 

Joseph  was  surprised  to  observe  that  some  of  the  women  spoke 
German  passably  well ; and  from  them  he  learned  that  the  head  of 
the  family,  although  he  now  saw  him  wearing  the  dress  of  a peasant, 
was  of  good  birth,  and  had,  in  his  youth,  enjoyed  both  fortune  and 
education;  but  that  having  been  entirely  ruined  in  the  wars  of  the 
Succession,  he  had  no  other  resource  than  to  attach  himself  as  a 
farmer  to  a neighboring  abbey,  which  racked  him  miserably  by  rights 
of  mitrage  and  other  church  dues,  over  and  above  the  usual  rent  and 
tithes. 

u See,  Joseph,  did  I not  tell  you  truly  ? ” asked  Consuelo,  “ when  I 
told  you  that  we  are  the  only  rich  in  the  world,  who  pay  no  tax  on 
our  voices,  and  who  work  only  when  we  will.” 

Before  bed-tifne  came  Consuelo  was  so  tired  that  she  fell  asleep  on 
a bench  by  the  side  of  the  door ; and  Joseph  took  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  to  ask  the  farmer’s  wife  for  beds. 

“ Beds,  my  lad  ! ” said  she,  smiling ; “ if  we  could  give  you  one,  it 
would  be  a great  deal,  and  you  should  be  glad  to  make  one  do  for 
both  of  you.” 

The  reply  made  the  blood  mount  to  Joseph’s  face.  He  looked  at 
Consuelo,  but  fortunately  she  had  not  understood  a word  that  was 
passing. 

“ My  companion  is  very  tired,”  said  he,  “ and  if  you  could  give  him 
a little  bed,  I could  sleep  cheerfully  wherever  it  might  suit,  in  a stable, 
or  a corner  of  a hayloft.” 

“Well,  if  the  boy  is  ailing,  for  humanity’s  sake,  we  will  givo  him  a 
bed  in  the  common  chamber;  our  three  daughters  shall  sleep  togeth- 
er; but  you  must  tell  your  companion  to  behave  himself  decently,  for 
my  husband  and  my  son-in-law  who  sleep  in  the  same  room,  will  soon 
bring  him  to  some  reason,  if  he  do  not.” 

“I  wi‘ll  be  answerable  for  the  good  conduct  and  civility  of  my 
friend ; I have  only  to  ascertain  whether  he  would  not  prefer  a bed 
in  the  hay,  to  a room  with  so  many  sleepers.” 

Joseph  had  now  to  awaken  the  Signor  Bertoni,  in  order  to  propose 
this  arrangement  to  him.  Consuelo  was  not  so  much  startled  as  ha 
had  expected.  She  thought  that  as  the  young  girls  were  to  sleep  in 
the  same  room  with  the  father  and  brother-in-law,  she  should  be  safer 
there  than  elsewhere;  therefore,  having  wished  Joseph  good-night, 
she  slipped  behind  the  four  brown  woollen  curtains  which  enclosed 
the  designated  bed,  and  scarcely  taking  time  to  undress,  fell  sound 
MlMjp. 


450  V a 3 B L &• 


m 


CHAPTER  ^XVIH 

ww,  however,  after  an  hour  or  two  of  that  heavy  sleep,  aw»* 
kmed  by  the  continual  noise  around  her ; on  one  side  the  old  grand- 
ther,  whose  bed  almost  touched  her  own,  coughed  and  rattled  all 
nigjit  long,  with  a most  dreadful  wheezing.  On  the  other  side,  a 
youag  woman  was  nursing  her  child,  and  singing  it  to  sleep;  the 
Mining  of  the  men  resembled  the  roaring  of  wild  beasts ; a child,  of 
whoin  there  were  four  in  a bed,  was  bellowing  as  he  quarreled  with 
his  brothers ; then  all  the  women  got  up  at  once,  to  make  peace,  and 
by  tlidr  threats  and  scolding,  made  more  noise  than  all  the  rest  to- 
gether^ This  perpetual  bustle,  the  yelling  of  the  children,  the  un- 
deanlikess,  the  heavy  smell  and  close  atmosphere,  charged  with  foul 
miasmata,  became  so  disagreeable  to  Consuelo,  that  she  could  hold 
out  no  lbnger.  Dressing  herself  quietly,  and  taking  advantage  of  a 
moment\  when  every  one  appeared  to  be  asleep,  she  stole  out  of  the 
house  to  seek  a place  where  she  might  sleep  quietly  till  morning. 

She  felt  even  that  she  could  sleep  more  comfortably  in  the  open  air. 
Having  pissed  the  preceding  night  in  exercise,  she  had  not  been 
aware  of  \he  cold ; but  now,  besides  that  she  was  in  an  exhausted 
state  of  body  very  different  from  the  excitement  she  had  then  expe- 
rienced, the  climate  of  this  elevated  region  was  by  far  severer  than 
that  of  Rie&nberg.  She  felt  herself  shivering,  and  a great  sense  of 
discomfort  led  her  to  fear  that  she  should  be  unable  to  endure,  in  suc- 
cession, man^days  of  toil  and  nights  of  wa telling,  since  the  beginning 
of  them  was  \o  uncomfortable.  It  was  in  vain  that  she  reproached 
herself  with  hiving  become,  as  it  were,  a princess  during  her  stay  at 
the  castle;  sheWould  almost  have  given  the  rest  of  her  days  for  rap 
hour  of  refreshing  sleep. 

Nevertheless,  lot  daring  to  return  into  the  house  at  the  risk  of 
awakening  and  disturbing  her  entertainers,  she  sought  the  door  of  the 
outhouses,  and  finding  that  of  the  stables  open,  she  groped  her  way 
in  by  the  sense  <\f  touch.  Everything  was  profoundly  silent ; and 
fudging  therefrom  that  the  place  was  empty,  she  stretched  herself  out 
in  a crib  full  of  stray,  the  scent  and  warmth  of  which  were  delicious 
to  her. 

She  had  almost  fa^en  asleep,  when  she  felt  a warm  and  damp 
breath  blowing  upon  her  forehead,  which  ceased  with  a violent  snort, 
and  a half  stifled  sounk  of  dissatisfaction.  Her  first  alarm  passed, 
she  saw  in  the  twilight,  Vhich  was  beginning  to  dawn,  a long  face  and 
a pair  of  formidable  horks  above  her  head.  It  was  a fine  cow,  which 
having  thrust  her  head  oW  the  rack,  and  snuffed  with  astonishment, 
had  started  back  in  disraa\  Her  ear  now  became  speedily  accustom- 
ed to  all  the  sounds  of  th eatable — the  ringing  of  the  chains  in  their 
staples,  the  lowing  of  the  Veifers,  and  the  rubbing  of  their  horns 
against  the  bars  of  the  cribs\  She  fell  asleep,  nor  did  she  wake  again 
until  it  was  broad  day,  even  when  the  milkmaids  entered  the  stable  to 
drive  out  the  cows,  and  milk  Aem  in  the  open  air.  The  darkness  of 
the  place  prevented  her  discovery,  and  the  sun  was  up  when  she 
opened  her  eyes.  Nestled  in  tlA  straw,  she  enjoyed  her  situation  for 
a few  moments  longer,  but  soon\found  herself  so  completely  rested, 
that  she  felt  no  doubt  any  more  of  being  able  to  resume  her  journey 
with  ease  and  comfort 


824 


fiCHBUELG, 


So  soon  as  she  jumped  now  out  of  her  crib,  the  first  object  she  to 
held  was  Joseph  seated  opposite  to  her,  on  the  crib  facing  that  k 
which  she  had  slept. 

u You  have  made  me  very  uneasy,  dear  Signor  Bertonl,”  said  lie, 
“ when  the  young  women  told  me  that  you  had  left  their  apartment, 
and  that  no  one  knew  whither  you  had  gone.  I sought  for  you  evary- 
where,  in  vain,  and  it  was  only  in  despair  of  finding  you,  that  1 re- 
turned hither,  where  I spent  last  night,  and  where  to  my  great  sur- 
prise I found  you.  I came  out  while  it  was  yet  dark,  and,  of  course 
did  not  think  of  looking  for  you  here,  under  the  horns  of  these  ani- 
mals, which  might  have  injured  you,  nestling  in  the  straw  opposite  to 
me.  Indeed,  signora,  you  are  very  rash,  and  you  do  not  consiior  the 
perils  of  all  kinds  to  which  you  are  exposing  yourself.” 

“ What  perils,  my  dear  Beppo  ? ” asked  Consuelo,  extending  her 
hand.  “These  good  cows  are  gentle  beasts,  and  I frightened  them 
it  ore  than  they  could  have  injured  me*” 

“ But,  signora,”  said  Joseph,  lowering  his  voice,  “ you  cane  here  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  to  seek  shelter,  wherever  you  might  find  it. 
Other  men  might  have  been  in  this  stable  beside  me — some  vagabond 
less  respectful  than  your  faithful  and  devoted  Beppo — som3  rude  serf, 
perhaps.  If,  instead  of  the  crib  you  chose,  you  had  taker  the  other, 
and  startled  not  me,  but  some  rustic,  or  some  brutal  soldier  from  his 
slumbers.” 

Consuelo  blushed  as  she  remembered  that  she  had  slept  so  near  to 
Joseph,  alone,  and  in  utter  darkness;  but  her  sense  cf  shame  only 
increased  her  confidence  in  that  good  young  man. 

“ Joseph,”  she  said  to  him,  “ do  you  not  see  that  in  all  my  impru- 
dences, heaven  is  still  near  to  me,  and  brings  me  near  to  you.  It  is 
Providence  which  brought  me  yesterday  to  the  spring  where  I found 
you,  where  you  gave  me  your  bread,  your  friendship,  and  you  protec- 
tion. It  is  Providence,  again,  which  has,  this  night,  placed  my  care- 
less sleep  under  safeguard  of  your  paternal  care.” 

Then  she  related  to  him  with  a laugh,  the  comfortless  night  which 
she  had  spent  in  the  common  chamber  of  the  farm,  and  how  tran- 
quilly and  happily  she  had  slept  among  the  cows, 

“Can  it  then  be  true,”  said  Joseph,  “that  these  animals  have  a 
more  agreeable  habitation,  and  more  refined  manners  than  the  men 
who  take  care  of  them?  ” 

“It  is  of  that  I was  thinking  when  I fell  asleep.  The  animals 
caused  me  neither  fear  nor  disgust;  and  I reproached  myself  with 
having  contracted  notions  and  habits  so  aristocratical,  that  the  society 
of  my  equals,  and  the  contact  of  their  indigence,  had  become  intoler- 
able to  me.  Whence  comes  this,  Joseph?  He  who  is  born  in  misery 
ought  not,  when  he  falls  back  into  it,  to  experience  that  disdainful  re- 
pugnance to  it  to  which  I have  given  way ; and  when  the  heart  has 
been  once  vitiated  by  the  atmosphere  of  wealth,  why  does  it  remain 
habitualy  delicate,  as  I have  shown,  by  flying  from  the  nauseating 
heat,  and  noisy  confusion  of  this  poor  6ovej  of  human  beings  ? ” 

“ It  is,  that  cleanliness,  pure  air,  and  good  order  within  doors  are  to 
all  choice  and  fine  organizations  absolute  and  legitimate  necessities,” 
replied  Joseph.  “ Whoever  is  born  an  artist  has  a taste  for  whatever 
is  beautiful  and  good,  an  antipathy  to  whatever  is  coarse  and  hideous 
—and  misery  is  both  coarse  and  hideous.  I am  a peasant,  and  my 
parents  gave  me  birth  beneath  a roof  of  thatch, — but  they  were 
artists;  vox  house,  though  poor  and  small,  was  clean  and  well  ar 


OOKSUELO* 


826 


tettMd.  It  is  true  that  our  poverty  was  near  akin  to  comfbrt,  and 
pfernape  excessive  privation  takes  away  even  the  perception  of  better 

4*Foor  wretches,”  said  Consuelo,  “ were  I rich,  I would  at  once 
build  them  a house : and  were  I a queen,  I would  abate  all  the  im- 
posts, and  put  down  all  these  monks  and  Jews  who  eat  them  out.” 

“ If  you  were  rich,  you  would  not  think — if  you  were  a queen,  you 
would  not  choose — to  do  it.  Thus  goes  the  world.” 

“ The  world  goes  ill  then.” 

“ Al^s ! too  true ! and  were  it  not  for  the  music  which  transports  us 
into  an  ideal  world,  one  could  but  kill  himself  to  think  of  the  horrors 
which  are  daily  passing  in  this  world.” 

“ To  kill  himself  were  easy  enough,  but  whom  does  it  profit,  save 
himself?  Joseph,  one  must  become  rich,  and  continue  human  in  or- 
der to  do  good.” 

H And  since  that  is  impossible  for  all,  it  were  necessary,  at  least, 
that  all  the  poor  should  become  artists.” 

“ That  is  not  a bad  idea,  Joseph.  If  all  the  poor  had  some  percep- 
tion, and  some  love  of  art,  to  lend  a coloring  to  their  poverty  and  t© 
embellish  their  misery,  there  would  no  longer  exist  uncleanliness,  or 
despair,  or  self  forgetfulness ; and  then  the  rich  would  not  so  despise, 
and  so  trample  on  the  poor.  Artists  are  always  in  some  degree  re- 
spected.” 

“ Ah ! you  make  me  think  of  that,  then,  for  the  first  time,”  said 
Haydn.  “ Art,  then,  can  have  a serious  end  — can  be  useful  to 
men  ? ” 

“ Did  you  think,  then,  that  it  was  but  an  amusement?  ” 

“ No— but  a disease,  a passion,  a storm  raging  at  the  heart,  a fever 
enkindling  itself  within  us,  which  we  communicate  to  others.  If  you 
know  what  it  is,  instruct  me.” 

“ I will  instruct  you,  when  I know  myself ; but,  doubtless,  it  is 
something  great — never  doubt  of  that,  Joseph.  Come,  let  us  set  forth, 
and  let  us  not  forget  the  violin,  friend  Beppo,  your  only  present  prop- 
erty, and  the  source  of  your  future  opulence.” 

They  began  by  making  their  little  provisions  for  the  breakfast, 
which  they  intended  to  eat  on  the  grass  in  some  romantic  spot;  but 
when  Joseph  pulled  out  hh  purse  to  pay  for  it,  the  farmer’s  wife 
smiled  and  refused  to  receive  anything,  firmly,  though  without  affec- 
tation. In  spite  of  Consuelo’s  urgency,  she  would  accept  nothing, 
and  even  watched  her  young  guests,  to  prevent  their  slipping  any 
.idle  gift  into  the  hands  of  the  children. 

“ Recall  to  your  mind,”  she  said  at  last,  and  that  a little  proudly, 
when  Joseph  pressed  the  point,  “that  my  husband  is  noble  by 
birth;  and  do  not  suppose  that  poverty  has  so  far  degraded  him, 
that  he  is  willing  to  sell  hospitality\” 

“ Such  pride  as  that  appears  to  me  a little  overdone,”  said  Joseph 
to  his  fellow-traveller,  when  they  were  again  afoot.  “ There  is  more 
of  pride  than  of  charity  in  the  feeling  which  animates  them.” 

. u I will  see  nothing  in  it  but  charity,”  replied  Consuelo,  “ and  I fed 
bitterly  ashamed,  and  wholly  penitent  that  I was  unable  to  endure 
the  inconveniences  of  a house  which  did  not  fear  the  taint  and  pollu- 
tion of  the  vagabond  whom  I represented.  Ah  1 cursed  refinement- 
absurd  delicacy  of  the  spoiled  children  of  ^he  world ! thou  art  but  a 
malady,  since  thou  art  but  health  to  the  one,  in  order  to  be  a detcfr 
Mat  to  another.” 


CONSUELO, 


Ml 

* For  a good  artist  as  you  are,  I think  you  are  by  far  too  eeraibi*  to 
things  which  pass  here  below/’  said  Joseph.  “ It  seems  to  me,  that 
An  artist  should  have  a certain  degree  of  indifference  and  forgetfulnees 
as  to  everything  which  does  not  belong  to  his  profession.  In  the  Inn, 
at  Klatau,  when  I heard  you  and  the  Giants’  Castle  spoken  of,  they 
said  that  in  the  midst  of  all  his  eccentricities,  Count  Albert  is  a great 
philosopher.  You  perceive,  signora,  that  one  could  not  be,  at  one 
and  the  same  time,  a great  artist  and  a philosopher ; that  is  the  reason 
tf  your  flight.  Do  not  suffer  yourself,  then,  to  be  moved  any  farther 
by  the  sufferings  of  mortals,  and  let  us  resume  our  yesterday’s 
iesson.” 

“ I will  gladly,  Beppo;  but  know  first  that  philosopher  or  not, 
Count  Albert  is  a much  greater  artist  than  we.” 

“ Indeed.  Then  he  wants  nothing  to  render  him  an  object  of 
love,”  said  Joseph  with  a sigh. 

Nothing  in  my  eyes  but  to  be  poor,  and  of  humble  birth,”  replied 
Consuelo,  and  wrought  upon  by  the  attentions  Joseph  paid  her,  and 
excited  to  enthusiasm  by  the  singular  questions  he  put  to  her,  trem- 
bling as  he  did  so,  she  suffered  herself  to  be  led  away  into  the  pleas- 
ure of  conversing  something  at  length  about  her  betrothed.  Every 
reply  led  to  an  explanation,  and  one  detail  drawing  on  another,  she 
at  length  began  to  relate  to  him  somewhat  minutely,  all  the  particu- 
lars of  the  affection  with  which  Albert  had  inspired  her.  The  name 
of  Anzoleto,  however,  never  once  came  to  her  lips,  and  she  perceived 
with  pleasure  that  it  had  never  once  occurred  to  her  to  speak  of  him, 
in  reference  to  her  sojourn  in  Bohemia. 

These  revelations,  displaced,  and  rash  as  they  were,  brought  on  the 
best  results.  They  made  Joseph  comprehend  fully,  how  deeply  the 
mind  of  Consuelo  was  engaged,  and  the  vague  hopes  which  he  began 
almost  involuntarily  to  conceive,  vanished  like  dreams,  of  which  he 
strove  to  banish  even  the  memory.  After  a silence  of  some  duration, 
which  followed  their  animated  conversation,  he  took  a firm  resolution 
to  look  at  her  in  future  neither  as  a beautiful  siren,  nor  as  a danger- 
ous companion,  but  simply  as  a great  artist  and  noble  woman,  whose 
counsels  and  friendship  must  needs  exercise  a beneficial  influence  on 
his  life.  As  much  to  respond  to  her  confidence,  as  to  put  a double 
barrier  on  his  own  resolution,  he  opened  his  heart  to  her  likewise, 
and  told  her  how  he,  like  herself,  was  engaged,  and  so  to  speak  be- 
trothed. The  romance  of  his  heart  was  less  poetical  than  that  of 
Consuelo,  but  to  those  who  know  the  issue  of  Haydn’s  life,  it  was  not 
less  pure  and  noble.  He  had  exhibited  some  regard  to  the  daughter 
of  his  generous  host,  Keller  the  wig-maker,  and  he,  observing  their 
sincere  affection,  said,  “ Joseph,  I put  my  trust  in  you.  You  seem  to 
love  my  daughter,  and  I see  that  you  are  not  indifferent  to  her.  If 
you  prove  as  true  as  you^are  industrious  and  grateful,  so  soon  as  you 
shall  have  ensured  yourself  a livelihood,  you  shall  be  my  son-in  law.” 
In  a moment  of  enthusiastic  gratitude,  Joseph  had  promised,  had 
sworn,  and  though  he  had  not  the  slightest  passion  for  his  betrothed, 
he  regarded/ himself  as  fettered  fast  for  ever. 

He  related  this  tale  with  deep  melancholy,  which  he  could  not 
^ercorne,  as  he  thought  of  the  difference  between  his  real  position, 
and  the  intoxicating  dreams  which  he  must  now  renounce  for  ever. 
Consuelo  supposed  that  this  sadness  was  a proof  of  the  depth  of  liis 
passion  for  Keller’s  daughter  He  dared  not  undeceive  her,  and  con- 
tinently her  ©steam  and  perfect  reliance  on  the  loyalty  and  purity 


eomuiLO.  $27 

it  Beppo,  hourly  augmented.  Their  Journey  was  troubled  therefore 
fcy  none  of  those  crises  and  explosions  which  might  have  been  pre- 
laged  as  likely  to  occur  during  a tete-a-tete  of  a fortnight’s  duration, 
lurreunded  by  all  circumstances  which  tend  to  secure  impunity  be- 
tween two  young  persons,  both  amiable  and  intelligent,  and  filled 
with  mutual  sympathy.  Although  Haydn  did  not  love  Keller’s 
daughter,  he  was  content  to  take  his  fidelity  of  conscience  for  fidelity 
of  the  heart,  and  although  he  sometimes  felt  the  storm  growling  at 
his  heart,  he  was  able  to  master  himself  so  completely,  that  his  fair 
companion,  sleeping  in  the  deep  woods  or  on  the  heather,  which  he 
watched  like  a dog  at  her  sid^,  traversing  deep  solitudes  in  his  com- 
pany afar  from  the  haunts  of  men,  passing  many  times  the  night  be- 
side him  in  the  same  hayloft,  or  the  same  cavern,  never  suspecting 
the  temptations  to  which  he  was  subjected,  or  admitted  the  merits  of 
his  victory.  When  in  his  old  age,  Haydn  read  the  first  books  of  Jean- 
Jacques-Rousseau’s  confessions,  it  was  with  a smile  blended  with  a 
tear  as  he  recalled  to  mind  his  passage  across  the  Boehmer-wald  with 
Consuelo,  with  trembling  love  and  pious  innocence  as  the  companions 
of  their  journey. 

“ Once,  indeed,  the  young  artist  was  in  a position  of  the  deadliest 
danger.  When  the  weather  was  fine,  the  roads  easy,  and  the  moon 
brilliant,  they  adopted  the  true  mode  of  travelling  on  foot  without 
running  the  risk  of  bad  lodgings.  They  took  up  their  abode  for  the 
day  in  some  pleasant  shady  place,  where  they  chatted,  dined,  practised 
music,  slept,  and  when  the  evening  began  to  grow  cold,  packed  up 
their  luggage  and  walked  on  again  until  day-light.  Thus  they  avoid- 
ed the  fatigue  of  walking  in  the  full  heat  of  the  sun,  the  danger  of 
being  curiously  scrutinized,  and  the  uncleanliness  and  expense  of 
hotels. 

But  when  the  rain,  which  became  very  frequent  in  the  higher  por- 
tions of  the  Boehmer-wald  near  the  sources  of  the  Moldau,  forced  them 
to  take  shelter,  they  did  so,  as  they  could,  sometimes  in  the  hut  of 
some  serf,  sometimes  in  the  granaries  of  some  c:astle-ward.  They  al- 
ways carefully  avoided  wayside-inns,  where  they  might  much  more 
easily  have  obtained  lodgings,  but  where  they  were  sure  to  fall  among 
rude,  perhaps  insulting  company,  and  scenes  of  outrage. 

One  night  during  a violent  tempest  they  entered  a goat-herd’s  hut, 
who,  as  his  only  welcome,  exclaimed,  as  he  yawned  and  stretched  his 
arm  towards  his  sheepfold,  “ Go  into  the  hay.” 

Consuelo  stole  away  as  wras  her  custom  to  ensconce  herself  in  the 
darkest  corner,  and  Joseph  made  his  way  toward  another,  when  he 
stumbled  over  the  legs  of  a man  who  was  asleep,  and  who  swrore 
horribly,  though  but  half  awakened.  Other  imprecations  replied  to 
his  oaths,  and  Joseph,  frightened  at  the  company,  drew  near  to  Con- 
suelo,  and  caught  her  by  the  arm  to  make  sure  that  no  one  should 
interpose  between  them.  His  first  idea  was  to  depart,  but  the  raio 
fell  in  torrents  on  the  plank  roof  of  the  hut,  and  every  one  was  fast 
asleep.  “ Let  us  stay,”  whisperdfi  Joseph  “until  the  rain  ceases. 
You  may  sleep  without  fear  for  I shall  not  close  an  eye,  and  shall 
remain  beside  you;  no  one  ;an  suspect  that  there  is  a woman  here. 
When  4>he  weather  becomes  tolerable  I will  waken  you  and  we  will 
slip  out  of  doors/  Consuelo  hesitated ; but  there  was  more  danger  in 
going  than  in  remaining.  Should  the  goat-herd  and  his  guests 
remark  her  apprehension  of  them,  they  would  undoubtedly  suspect 
gomaUxicg  aither  that  her  sex  or  her  possession  of  money  rendered 


CON8UILO, 


828 

her  fcarftil;  and  if  these  men  were  capable  of  111  intentions,  thej 
eould  easily  follow  them  into  the  country  and  attack  them  there. 
Consuelo  having  reflected  on  all  this,  remained  quiet,  but  ahe  wound 
her  arm  into  that  of  Joseph,  through  a very  natural  sensation  of 
alarm,  and  of  confidence  in  his  vigilant  protection. 

When  the  rain  ceased,  as  neither  one  nor  the  other  had  slept,  they 
were  on  the  point  of  going  forth,  when  they  heard  their  unknown 
companions  rising,  and  talking  one  with  another  in  some  incompre- 
hensible slang,  as  they  lifted  their  heavy  packets,  and  loaded  them  on 
their  shoulders.  They  then  withdrew  after  exchanging  a few  words 
in  German  with  the  goat-herd,  which  led  Joseph  to  think  that  they 
wero  smugglers,  and  that  their  host  was  in  their  confidence.  It  was 
oarely  midnight,  but  the  moon  was  rising,  and  by  a gleam  which 
fell  on  them  obliquely  through  the  half-open  door,  Consuelo  saw  the 
flash  of  their  arms,  which  they  were  endeavoring  to  conceal  under 
their  cloaks.  At  the  same  time  she  was  satisfied  that  no  one  re- 
mained in  the  hut,  for  the  goat-herd  himself  went  out  with  the  com 
trabandists,  whom  he  promised  to  guide  through  the  mountain 
passes,  leaving  her  alone  with  Haydn.  She  heard  him  tell  them,  that 
ue  could  lead  them  to  the  frontiers  by  a route  known  to  himself 
only ; and  one  of  those  stern  resolute-faced  men  replied — “ If  you 
deceive  ns,  I will  blow  your  brains  out  on  the  first  suspicion.”  Their 
measured  tramp  re-echoed  on  the  gravel  for  some  minutes.  The 
sound  of  a neighboring  brook,  however,  swollen  by  the  rains,  covered 
that  of  their  march  which  was  soon  lost  in  the  distance. 

“We  had  no  occasion  to  fear  them,”  said  Joseph;  “ they  are  per- 
sons who  avoid  the  eyes  of  men,  even  more  than  we  do.” 

“ And  for  that  very  reason,”  said  Consuelo,  “ I think  that  we  were 
In  danger.  When  you  stumbled  over  them  In  the  dark,  you  did  well 
\n  making  no  reply  to  their  oaths.  They  took  you  for  one  of  them- 
selves, otherwise  they  would  have  feared  us  as  spies,  and  we  should 
have  been  in  an  awkward  position.  Thank  God,  however,  we  have 
ao  more  to  fear,  and  we  are  once  again  alone.” 

“ Go  to  sleep,  then,”  said  Joseph,  as  Consuelo  withdrew  her  arm 
from  his  own.  “ I will  keep  watch  still,  and  at  daybreak  we  will  set 
forth.” 

Consuelo  had  been  oppressed  more  by  Tear  than  by  fatigue,  and  she 
was  so  much  in  the  habit  of  sleeping  by  the  side  of  her  friend,  that 
she  yielded  to  her  weariness,  and  slumbered  almost  instantly.  But 
Joseph,  who  had  also  fallen  into  the  custom  of  sleeping  tranquilly 
And  almost  unconsciously  at  her  side,  on  this  occasion,  could  not  rest. 
Everything  disturbed  him  — the  melancholy  sound  of  the  streamlet, 
the  wind  complaining  through  the  fir  trees,  the  moonbeams  falling 
through  a chink  in  the  roof,  and  faintly  illuminating  the  pale  face  of 
Consuelo,  set  off  by  her  jet  black  hair;  and,  lastly,  I know  not  what 
of  the  wild  and  savage,  which  seems  to  exist  in  the  heart  of  every 
man,  and  to  be  awakened  in  him,  when  all  around  is  wild  and  savage. 
At  length  day  broke,  and  as  he  could  now  distinctly  see  the  pure 
grave  features  of  Consuelo,  he  was  ashamed  at  his  own  thoughts  and 
sufferings.  He  went  out  and  bathed  his  head  and  hair  in  the  ice-cold 
waters  of  the  stream,  and  that  done,  felt  as  if  he  had  washed  away 
the  guilty  thoughts  which  had  inflamed  his  brain. 

Consuelo  soon  joined  him,  and  performed  the  same  ablutions  to 
arouse  herself  from  the  exhaustion  which  succeeds  a deep  sleep,  and 
to  familiarize  herself  at  a single  motion  with  the  chill  atmosphere  Qt 


eoHSVBio.  829 

the  early  morning.  She  was  astonished  to  see  Haydn  look  so  over* 
eome  and  so  sad. 

“ Oh!  now  indeed,  Brother  Beppo,”  she  said  to  him,  “you  do  not 
bear  fatigue  and  emotion  so  well  as  I do.  You  are  as  pale  as  these 
little  flowers,  which  look  as  if  they  were  weeping  into  the  face  of  the 
stream.” 

“And  you,”  said  Haydn,  “ are  as  fresh  as  these  beautiful  wild  roses, 
Which  look  as  though  they  smiled  upon  its  banks.  I know,  however, 
that  I can  defy  fatigue  in  spite  of  my  pallid  face ; but  as  to  emotion 
signora,  it  is  true  that  I know  not  how  to  endure  it.” 

He  was  sad  all  the  morning : and,  when  they  stopped  to  eat  theii 
bread  and  hazel  nuts  on  a beautiful  sloping  meadow  under  the  sheltei 
of  a wild  vine,  she  pressed  him  with  so  many  artless  questions  on  the 
causes  of  his  gloomy  mood,  that  he  could  not  refrain  from  answering 
her  with  words  full  of  despite  against  himself  and  his  destinies. 

“Well,  if  you  must  know,”  said  he,  “learn  that  I am  unhappy, 
because  I am  drawing  daily  nearer  to  Vienna,  where  my  destiny.is 
engaged,  although  my  heart  is  not.  I do  not  love  my  betrothed,  and 
yet  I will  keep  my  promise,  for  I have  promised.” 

“ Is  it  possible  ? ” cried  Consuelo,  struck  with  surprise.  “ In  that 
case,  my  poor  Beppo,  our  fortunes,  which  I thought  so  much  alike  in 
many  points,  are  utterly  dissimilar,  for  you  are  hastening  toward  a 
bride  whom  you  do  not  love,  and  I am  flying  from  a lover  whom  I do 
love.  Strange  fortune,  which  gives  to  these  that  which  they  dread, 
and  snatches  from  those  that  which  they  adore.” 

She  pressed  his  hand  affectionately  as  she  spoke,  and  Joseph  saw 
clearly  that  her  reply  was  not  dictated  by  the  suspicion  of  his  temerity, 
or  the  desire  of  reading  him  a lesson ; but  the  lesson  wars  none  the 
less  efficacious.  She  pitied  his  misfortune,  and  mourned  over  it  with 
him,  even  while  she  showed  him,  by  the  deep  and  sincere  utterance 
of  her  own  heart,  that  she  loved  another  immutably,  and  with  all  her 
heart. 

That  was  Joseph’s  last  folly  towards  her.  He  snatched  his  violin, 
and,  as  he  scraped  it  violently,  forgot  the  storms  of  the  past  night. 
When  they  set  forth  again  upon  their  road,  he  had  completely  abjured 
his  love  as  a thing  impossible,  and  th®  events  which  followed,  but 
caused  him  to  feel  the  more  strongly  the  potency  of  friendship  and 
devotion.  When  Consuelo  saw  a dark  shadow  fall  upon  his  brow, 
and  when  she  endeavored  by  gentle  words  to  assuage  his  sorrow — 
“ Do  not  disturb  yourself  on  my  account,”  he  said.  “ If  I am  con* 
demned  not  to  love  my  wife,  at  least,  I shall  feel  sincere  friendship 
for  her,  and  friendship  will  make  up  for  the  want  of  love.  I feel  it 
better  than  you  would  believe.” 


CHAPTER  LSIX 

Haydn  had  never  cause  to  regret  that  ioumey,  or  the  sufferings 
which  he  had  combated.  For  he  received  better  lessons  in  Italian, 
and  gained  more  correct  ideas  of  music,  than  ever  he  had  conceived 
before.  During  the  long  halts  which  they  made  in  the  shades  of  the 

Boehmei  waid,  our  young  artists  revealed  one  to  the  other  ail  they 


880 


consuuo, 


possessed  of  intelligence  and  genius.  Although  Joseph  Haydn  had 
a fine  voice,  and  could  hold  his  own  as  a chorus  singer,  and  although 
he  played  well  on  the  violin  and  on  other  instruments,  he  readily  un- 
derstood when  he  heard  Consuelo  sing,  that  she  was  infinitely  superi- 
or to  him  as  a virtuoso,  and  that  she  could  have  made  him  an  able 
singer,  even  without  the  aid  of  Master  Porpora.  But  Haydn’s  ambi- 
tion and  his  raculties  were  not  to  be  limited  to  this  branch  of  art ; 
and  Consuelo,  seeing  that  he  was  so  little  advanced  in  the  practice, 
while  on  the  theory  of  the  art,  he  expressed  opinions  so  elevated  and 
so  well  understood,  said  to  him  one  day, — •“  I am  not  sure  that  I am 
doing  well  in  giving  you  an  attachment  for  the  study  of  singing,  for  If 
you  should  take  a passion  for  the  profession,  you  will  be,  perhaps, 
sacrificing  higher  powers  which  lie  dormant  within  you.  Let  me  see 
some  of  your  compositions.  In  spite  of  my  long  and  severe  studies 
of  counterpoint  with  so  great  a master  as  Porpora,  all  that  I have 
learned  barely  enables  me  to  comprehend  the  creations  of  genius,  arid 
I have  not  the  time,  even  if  I had  the  courage,  to  attempt  myself  to 
create  works  in  extenso ; whereas,  if  you  possess  the  creative  genius, 
you  ought  to  follow  that  line,  and  to  regard  song  and  the  use  of  in- 
struments only  as  the  means  to  an  end.” 

It  is  true  that  since  Haydn’s  meeting  with  Consuelo,  he  had 
thought  only  of  getting  her  to  teach  him  to  sing.  To  follow  her,  or  to 
live  with  her — to  find  her  at  all  points  throughout  his  career,  was  for 
many  days  his  dearest  and  most  cherished  dream.  He  made,  there- 
fore, some  difficulties  about  showing  her  his  last  manuscript,  which 
he  had  finished  writing  on  his  way  to  Pilsen.  He  feared  equally  that 
she  should  find  him  inferior  in  that  line,  and  that  she  should  think  his 
talent  so  distinguished  as  to  oppose  his  desire  to  sing.  But  he  yielded 
at  last,  and  partly  by  consent — partly  by  violence,  suffered  her  to 
snatch  the  mysterious  copy  from  him.  It  was  a little  sonata  for  the 
piano,  which  he  intended  for  his  young  pupils.  Consuelo  began  by 
reading  it  with  the  eye,  and  Joseph  was  astonished  to  see  that,  by 
simply  reading  it,  she  mastered  it  as  completely  as  if  she  had  heard  it 
executed.  Then  she  made  him  play  several  passages  of  it  on  the 
violin,  and  sang  herself  such  as  were  possible  for  the  human  voice.  I 
know  not  whether  from  that  first  scintillation  Consuelo  divined  the 
future  author  of  the  Creation , and  so  many  other  admirable  produc- 
tions, but  it  is  very  certain  that  she  foresaw  a great  master,  and  she  said 
as  she  returned  his  manuscript  to  him,  “ Courage,  Beppo,  you  are  a 
distinguished  artist,  and  will  be  a great  composer,  if  you  work  hard. 
You  have  ideas — that  is  certain.  With  ideas  and  science  much  may 
be  accomplished.  Acquire  science,  then,  and  let  us  triumph  over  the 
eccentric  humors  of  Master  Porpora.  He  is  the  master  you  require. 
But  think  no  more  of  the  boards.  Your  place  is  elsewhere,  and  youi 
plume  must  be  your  baton  of  command.  You  are  not  destined  to 
obey,  but  to  govern.  When  one  might  be  the  soul  of  the  work,  how 
should  he  think  of  being  the  mere  machine?  Come,  maestro  that 
shall  be,  study  no  more  quavers  and  cadences  with  your  throat. 
Learn  where  you  must  place  them,  and  not  how  to  execute  them ; 
that  is  the  business  of  your  very  humble  servant  and  subordinate,  who 
undertakes  the  first  female  that  yvu  write  for  a mezzo-soprano.” 

“ O,  Consuelo  de  mi  alma  l ” said  Joseph,  transported  with  joy  and 
hope.  u What ! I write  for  you  ? I be  understood  and  expressed  by 
you ! What  glory,  what  ambition,  you  suggest  to  me !— but  no,  no  1 It 
Is  a dream— a madness.  Teach  me  to  sing,  I prefer  rendering,  a* 


consd  eVoV  331 

«ording  to  your  heart  and  your  intelligence,  the  ideas  of  others,  to 
composing  for  your  divine  lips  accents  unworthy  of  you.” 

u Come,  come,”  said  Consuelo,  “ a truce  to  ceremony.  Try  to  im- 
provise something  now  with  the  violin — now  with  the  voice.  It  is  thus 
that  the  soul  manifests  itself  on  the  extremity  of  the  lips,  at  the  tip* 
of  the  fingers.  So  shall  I know  whether  you  have,  indeed,  the  divine 
afflatus,  or  are  but  a quick  scholar  steeped  in  recollections  of  the 
works  of  others.” 

Haydn  obeyed  her ; and  she  was  pleased  to  see  that  he  was  not 
scientific,  and  that  he  had  youth,  freshness  and  simplicity  in  his  first 
ideas.  She  encouraged  him  more  and  more,  and,  from  that  time 
forth,  would  '■only  teach  him  to  sing  in  so  far,  as  she  said,  as  to  teach 
him  how  to  introduce  it. 

They  amuse  themselves  afterwards  in  singing  little  Italian  duets  to- 
gether, which  she  taught  him,  and  which  he  learned  by  heart. 
“Should  we  come  to  want  money  on  our  journey,”  said  she,  “ we 
shall  have  to  depend  on  street  singing;  and,  perhaps,  the  police  may 
take  it  into  their  heads  to  put  our  musical  powers  to  the  test — if  by 
chance  they  should  take  us  for  vagabond  cut-purses,  so  many  of  whom 
there  are,  vile  wretches,  who  dishonor  our  profession.  Let  us  be 
ready,  at  all  events.  My  voice,  using  it  entirely  as  a contralto,  may 
pass  for  that  of  a young  boy,  before  the  change  has  taken  place.  You 
must  also  learn  to  play  a few  little  songs  on  the  violin,  in  which  you 
can  accompany  me.  You  will  soon  see  whether  it  is  a bad  study. 
These  popular  facetigs  are  full  of  energy  and  of  original  sentiment, 
and  as  to  my  old  Spanish  songs,  they  are  perfect  gems,  diamonds  un- 
polished. Master,  make  your  account  of  them.  Ideas  will  engender 
ideas.” 

These  studies  to  Haydn  were  sources  of  perfect  pleasure.  It  was 
from  them,  perchance,  that  he  struck  the  vein  of  those  pretty,  fairy- 
like, childish  compositions,  which  he  threw  off  at  a later  day,  for  the 
puppet-shows  of  the  little  Princess  Esterhazy.  Consuelo  gave  so 
much  gaiety,  so  much  grace,  animation  and  spirit  into  these  lessons, 
that  the  good  young  man,  carried  back  to  the  petulance  and  careless 
happiness  of  childhood,  forgot  his  ideas  of  love,  his  privations,  his  un- 
easinesses. and  had  now  no  other  wish  than  that  this  wandering  edu- 
cation might  never  have  an  end. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  write  a guide-book  of  the  travels  of  Con- 
suelo and  Haydn ; but  slenderly  acquainted  with  the  bye-paths  of  the 
Bdehmer-wald,  we  shall,  perhaps,  err  widely  in  our  descriptions,  were 
we  to  follow  their  track  by  the  confused  recollections  which  alone  re- 
main to  us.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  first  half  of  their  journey  was 
agreeable,  rather  than  the  reverse,  up  to  the  moment  when  an  adven- 
ture befell  them,  which  must  not  be  passed  over. 

They  had  followed  from  its  source  downward,  the  northern  bank 
of  the  Moldau,  because  it  appeared  to  them  the  least  frequented  and 
the  most  picturesque.  They  descended  then  during  one  whole  day, 
the  deeply  embanked  gorge,  which  extends  itself,  descending  all  the 
way,  in  the  direction  of  the  Danube.  But  when  they  had  come  so 
far  as  to  Schenau,  seeing  the  chain  of  mountains  descending  toward 
the  plain,  they  regretted  that  they  had  not  chosen  the  other  bank  of 
the  river,  and  with  it  the  other  branch  of  the  chain,  which  ran  off, 
rising  continually,  towards  Bavaria.  These  mountains  offered  them 
more  woodland  retreats,  and  more  poetical  haunts  than  the  valley* 
©f  Bohemia.  During  their  mid-day  halts  in  the  depth*  of  the  for^ 


COMIUIL X 


189 

/ 

they  amused  themselves  with  setting  springs  and  bird-dime  for  tM 
little  birds,  and  on  awakening  from  their  siesta,  often  found  their 
snares  well-furnished  with  this  small  game,  which  they  cooked  with 
a fire  of  dead  wood  in  the  open  air,  and  thought  delicious.  To  the 
nightingales,  however,  they  gave  their  lives,  under  the  pretext  that 
these  musical  birds  wrere  their  brother  artists. 

Our  hapless  couple,  therefore,  now  wended  their  way  wearily 
along,  seeking  a ford  but  finding  none ; for  the  river  was  rapid,  deeply 
embanked,  and  swollen  ^by  the  rains  of  the  last  days..  At  length  they 
came  to  a sort  of  dock,  to  which  was  moored  a small  boat,  with  a 
boy  for  boat-keeper.  They  hesitated  a little,  on  seeing  a number  of 
persons  approaching  the  boy  before  them,  and  bargaining  for  a pas- 
sage. These  men  separated,  after  taking  leave  of  one  another.  Three 
preferred  to  follow  the  northern  bank  to  Moldau,  while  the  two  others 
entered  the  boat.  This  circumstance  decided  Consuelo— “ a meeting 
on  the  right,  a meeting  on  the  left,”  said  she  to  Joseph.  “We  may 
as  well  cross  over,  since  that  was  our  first  intention.” 

Haydn  still  hesitated,  and  insisted  that  the  men  were  ill-looking, 
talked  loud,  and  had  brutal  manners;  when  one  of  them,  as  if  to 
contradict  this  unfavorable  opinion,  bade  the  ferryman  stop,  and  ad- 
dressing Consuelo  in  German,  and  beckoning  with  an  air  of  jolly  good 
nature,  cried — “ Come,  my  lad,  come  on ; the  boat  is  not  loaded,  and 
you  can  go  across  with  us  if  you  desire  it.” 

“We  are  much  obliged  to  you,  monsieur,”  replied  Haydn,  “and 
will  profit  by  your  kindness.” 

“ Come,  my  lads,”  resumed  he,  who  had  spoken  before,  and  whom 
his  companion  called  M.  Mayer;  “come,  jump  in.” 

Joseph  had  scarcely  taken  his  seat  in  the  boat,  before  he  observed 
that  the  two  strangers  were  looking  alternately  at  himself  and  Con- 
suelo,  with  great  attention  and  curiosity.  Nevertheless,  the  face  of  M. 
Mayer  announced  only  mildness  and  gaiety.  His  voice  was  agreeaUe, 
his  manners  polite,  and  Consuelo  gained  confidence  from  his  gray  hair* 
and  paternal  expression. 

“ You  are  a musician,  my  lad,  are  you  not?  ” said  he  to  the  latter. 

“ At  your  service,  monsieur,”  replied  J oseph. 

“And  you,  too?  ” asked  M.  Mayer  of  Joseph.  “ He  is  your  broth- 
er, I presume,”  he  added. 

“ No,  monsieur,  he  is  my  friend,”  said  Joseph.  “We  are  not  even 
of  the  same  nation ; and  he  hardly  speaks  German  at  all .” 

“What  country  does  he  come  from,  then?”  asked  M.  Mayer,  still 
gazing  at  Consuelo. 

“ From  Italy,  monsieur,”  replied  Haydn. 

“Venetian,  Genoese,  Roman,  Neapolitan,  or  Calabrian?”  said  M. 
Mayer,  pronouncing  each  of  these  words  with  perfect  ease,  in  its  own 
peculiar  dialect. 

“Oh ! monsieur,  I see  that  you  can  talk  with  every  kind  of  Ital- 
ian,” said  Consuelo,  fearing  to  make  herself  remarkable  by  too  obsti- 
nate a silence.  “ I am  from  V enice.” 

“Ah l a beautiful  country,  that,”  said  M.  Mayer,  immediately 
adopting  Consuelo’s  dialect.  “ Have  you  long  left  it  ? ” 

“ Only  six  months.” 

“ And  you  are  strolling  the  country,  playing  the  violin,  hey  ? " 

'No.  It  is  he  whc  accompanies,”  said  Consuelo,  pointing  to 
soph.  “I  sing.” 

“And  do  yon  play  no  instrument — hautboy,  fiuta,  or  tern 
bmxim?" 


CON8UELO. 


S3S 


• Jfo.  It  were  useless  to  me.” 

* But  if  you  are  a good  musician,  you  could  easi.y  learn.” 

* Oh!  certainly,  if  it  were  necessary.” 

But  you  do  not  care  about  it,  hey?” 

r No.  I prefer  to  sing.” 

u And  you  are  right.  But  you  will  have  to  come  to  that,  or  changt 
your  profession,  and  that  before  very  long.” 

“ And  wherefore  so,  monsieur.” 

u Because  your  voice  will  very  soon  break,  if  it  has  not  begun  to  da 
ac  already.  How  old  are  you?  Fourteen,  or  fifteen  at  the  utmost?  ” 

• Somewhere  thereabout.” 

“ Exactly  so.  Then  within  a year  you  will  sing  just  like  a little  frog, 
aid  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  you  will  ever  become  a nightingale 
again.  It  is  a sharp  trial  which  every  boy  has  to  undergo,  when  he 
passes  from  childhood  to  youth.  Sometimes  he  loses  his  voice  alto- 
gether, when  he  gains  his  beard.  Were  I you,  I would  learn  to  play 
the  fife ; so  you  would  always  be  able  to  gain  your  livelihood.” 

“ I will  see  about  it,  when  the  time  comes.” 

“And  you,  my  fine  fellow,”  said  M.  Mayer,  speaking  to  Joseph  in 
German,  “ do  you  play  the  violin,  only?  ” 

“ Pardon  me,  monsieur,”  answered  Joseph,  gaining  confidence,  as 
he  saw  that  Consuelo  was  in  no  wise  put  out  by  the  good  M.  Mayer’s 
questions, — “ I play  a little  on  several  other  instruments.” 
n Such  as,  for  instance  ? — ” 

" The  piano,  the  harp,  the  flute ; a little  on  almost  anything,  when 
I have  a chance  to  learn.” 

“ With  such  talents,  you  do  very  wrongly  to  tramp  the  roads  as  you 
are  doing ; it  is  a rough  trade.  I see  that  your  companion,  who  is 
still  younger  and  more  delicate  than  you,  is  almost  beaten  now ; for 
he  halts  in  his  gait.” 

“ Have  you  observed  that,  monsieur?”  said  Joseph,  who  had  mark- 
ed it  but  too  clearly  himself,  although  his  companion  would  not  con- 
fess the  swelling  and  soreness  of  her  feet. 

“ I saw  very  plainly,”  said  M.  Mayer,  “that  it  was  with  great  pain 
he  dragged  himself  down  to  the  boat.” 

“ Ah ! monsieur,”  said  Haydn,  concealing  his  annoyance  under  an 
air  of  philosophical  indifference;  “what  would  you  have?  We  are 
not  born  to  live  together  at  our  ease ; and  when  it  is  necessary  for  u« 
to  suffer,  why,  we  suffer.” 

“ But  when  one  might  live  more  happily  and  more  respectably  by 
adopting  a permanent  dwelling— what  say  you,  then  ? I do  not  like 
to  see  intelligent  and  amiable  children  as  you  appear  to  be,  wander- 
ing about  like  vagabonds.  —Take  the  opinion  of  an  old  man  who  has 
children  of  his  own,  and  who,  in  all  probability,  will  never  see  you 
again,  my  young  friends.  By  running  after  adventures  in  this  way, 
you  will  only  corrupt,  if  you  do  not  kill  yourselves.  Remember  what 
I say  to  you.” 

“ Thanks  for  your  good  counsel,  monsieur,”  said  Consuelo,  with  an 
affectionate  smile ; “ we  will,  perhaps,  take  advantage  of  it.” 

“ May  heaven  listen  to  you,  my  little  gondolier,”  said  M.  Mayer  to 
Consuelo,  who  had  taken  up  an  oar  mechanically,  and  began  to  row 
according  to  a popular  habit,  especially  current  in  Venice. 

The  boat  touched  the  bank  at  last,  after  having  made  a long  slant 
down  stream,  in  consequence  of  the  strength  of  the  current  which 
vaa  both  swift  and  swollen.  M.  Mayer  took  friendly  leave  of  the 


834 


OON8UBL0. 


young  artists,  as  he  wished  them  good-bye,  and  his  silent  comrade 
would  not  allow  them  to  pay  the  ferryman.  After  suitable  adieux, 
Consuelo  and  Joseph  entered  a path  which  led  towards  the  moun- 
tains. while  the  two  strangers  followed  the  west  bank  of  the  river,  in 
the  same  direction. 

u That  M.  Mayer  seems  to  me  a very  worthy  man,”  said  Consuelo, 
turning  round  for  the  last  time  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  before  losing 
sight  of  him.  “ I am  sure  that  he  is  a good  father  of  his  family.” 

“He  is  inquisitive  and  talkative,”  said  Joseph;  “and  I am  very 
glad  that  you  are  at  liberty  from  the  embarrassment  of  his  ques 
tions.” 

“ He  loves  to  talk,  as  many  men  do,  who  have  travelled  much.  IIe 
is  a citizen  of  the  world,  to  judge  by  his  facility  in  pronouncing  differ- 
ent languages.  What  country  can  he  come  from  ? ” 

“ His  accent  is  Saxon,  though  be  speaks  the  language  of  Lower 
Austria  well.  I think  he  is  from  the  north  of  Germany ; perhaps  a 
Prussian.” 

“ So  much  the  worse,  I don’t  like  the  Prussians,  and  their  king 
Frederick,  the  least  of  all  his  nation,  after  all  that  I heard  of  him  at 
the  Giants’  castle.” 

“ If  that  is  the  case,  you  will  be  a favorite  in  Vienna,  for  that  war* 
like  and  philosophic  king  has  no  partisans,  either  in  the  court  or  in 
the  city.” 

As  they  conversed  thus,  they  entered  the  depths  of  the  forest,  and 
followed  paths  which,  at  one  time,  wandered  devious  among  the  dark 
pines,  and  at  another,  coasted  the  slopes  of  the  broken  mountains. 
Consuelo  thought  these  Hyrcinio-Carpathian  mountains  more  agree- 
able than  sublime ; for  after  having  crossed  the  Alps  several  times, 
she  did  not  feel  the  same  delight  with  Joseph,  who  had  never  seen 
hills  so  majestic  as  these.  His  impressions,  therefore,  amounted 
almost  to  enthusiasm,  while  his  companion  felt  more  disposed  to  rev- 
erie. Consuelo,  moreover,  was  very  weary  this  day,  and  made  great 
efforts  to  conceal  it,  in  order  to  avoid  afflicting  Joseph. 

They  slept  for  a few  hours,  during  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  after 
having  dined,  and  practised  their  music,  set  off  again  toward  sunset. 
But,  ere  long  Consuelo,  though  she  had  bathed  her  delicate  feet  for  a 
long  time  in  the  crystal  water  of  the  mountain  springs,  felt  acutely 
the  laceration  of  her  feet  on  the  pebbles,  and  was  compelled  to  admit 
that  she  could  not  make  good  their  night’s  march.  Unfortunately 
the  country  on  that  side  was  absolutely  a desert  There  was  not  a 
cottage,  not  a monastery,  not  even  a cowherd’s  hut  on  the  declivity 
toward  the  Moldau.  Joseph  was  in  despair,  the  night  was  too  cold 
to  think  of  passing  it  in  the  open  air;  but  at  length,  through  an  open* 
ing  between  two  hills,  they  discovered  lights  at  the  foot  of  the  oppo- 
site slope.  This  valley,  into  which  they  were  descending  was  Bavaria, 
but  the  town  which  they  saw  was  farther  off  than  they  had  imagined ; 
and  it  seemed  to  Joseph  that  it  continually  receded,  as  they  advanced 
toward  it.  To  put  the  last  stroke  to  their  troubles,  a fine  cold  rain 
began  to  fall,  and  in  a few  minutes  so  obscured  the  atmosphere  that 
the  lights  disappeared;  so  that  when,  with  much  pain  and  peril,  they 
had  reached  the  base  of  the  mountain,  they  knew  not  in  what  direc* 
tion  to  proceed ; they  were  now,  however,  on  a level  road,  and  they 
continued  to  drag  themselves  along  it  constantly  descending,  when 
they  heard  the  sound  of  a carriage  coming  toward  them.  Joseph  did 
not  hesitate  to  hail  it,  in  order  to  obtain  some  directions  as  to  the 
road,  and  the  possibility  of  obtaining  a lodging  for  the  night 


O N 8 U fi  L 0« 


885 


* Who  goes  there  ? ” cried  a powerful  voice,  and  the  click  of  a p etoh 
lock  was  heard  at  the  same  moment.  “ Stand  off,  or  I will  blow  your 
hrains  out.” 

* We  are  not  very  formidable,”  replied  Joseph,  in  no  wise  discon- 
certed. “ See,  we  are  but  two  boys,  and  all  that  we  ask  is  instructions 
concerning  the  road.” 

“ What  is  this  ? ” exclaimed  another  voice,  which  Consuelo  instant- 
ly recollected  as  being  that  of  the  good-natured  M.  Mayer.  “ These 
are  my  little  acquaintances  of  this  morning.  I recognise  the  accent 
of  the  elder.  Are  you  there  too,  my  little  gondolier  ? ” he  added  in 
Venetian,  addressing  himself  to  Consuelo. 

“ I am  here,”  she  replied  in  the  same  dialect,  “We  have  lost  our 
way,  ahd  we  are  asking  you,  my  good  sir,  where  we  can  find  any 
place  of  refuge,  from  a palace  down  to  a stable.  Tell  us,  I beseech 
you,  if  you  know.” 

“ Ah  I my  poor  children,”  replied  M.  Mayer,  “ you  are  at  least  two 
miles  distant  from  any  sort  of  habitation.  You  will  not  find  so  much 
as  a kennel  even  on  these  mountains.  But  I have  pity  on  you.  ( let 
into  my  carriage ; I can  give  you  two  seats  without  crowding  myself. 
Come,  do  not  make  a fuss  about  it,  but  get  in.” 

“ Monsieur,  you  are  much  too  good,”  cried  Consuelo,  touched  by 
his  hospitality;  “ but  you  are  going  to  the  north,  and  we  are  journey- 
ing toward  Austria.” 

“ No.  I am  going  to  the  westward ; in  an  hour,  at  the  farthes  t,  I 
will  set  you  down  atBiberach,  and  to-morrow  you  will  enter  Austria. 
This  will  even  shorten  your  road.  Come,  make  up  your  minds,  unless 
you  like  standing  there  in  the  rain,  and  delaying  us  all.” 

“ Well—  courage  and  confidence,”  whispered  Consuelo  to  Joseph, 
and  they  entered  the  carriage,  in  which  they  observed  that  there 
were  three  persons.  Two  of  them  sat  on  the  front  seat,  one  of  whom 
was  driving.  The  third,  who  sat  on  the  back  seat,  was  M.  Mayer* 
Consuelo  took  the  opposite  corner,  and  Joseph  sat  between  them. 
The  carriage  was  a strong  roomy  wagon  with  six  seats,  and  the  tall 
powerful  horse,  under  the  guidance  of  a vigorous  hand,  broke  into  a 
trot,  and  made  the  rings  on  his  collar  jingle  merrily,  as  he  shook  his 
head  with  impatience. 


CHAPTER  LXX 

“ As  I was  telling  you,”  said  M.  Mayer,  resuming  his  discourse 
where  he  had  stopped  in  the  morning,  “ there  can  be  no  harder  and 
more  laborious  trade,  than  that  which  you  have  adopted.  When  the 
sun  shines,  all  indeed  looks  brightly;  but  the  sun  does  not  shine 
always,  and  your  fate  is  as  variable  as  the  atmosphere.” 

“ Whose  destiny  is  not  variable  and  uncertain  ? ” said  Consuelo. 
44  When  the  skies  are  inclement,  Providence  sends  us  good  hearts,  who 
succor  us  on  the  road ; it  is  not,  therefore,  in  moments  such  as  these, 
that  we  should  declaim  against  it.” 

“ You  have  quick  wits, my  little  friend,”  said  M.  Mayer;  “you come 
from  that  beautiful  land,  where  every  one  is  quick-witted.  But  be- 
have me,  neither  you  • wits  nop  your  fine  voice  will  prevent  your  dying 


886 


eon  IU1LO. 


of  hunger  in  these  dismal  Austrian  provinces.  Were  I In  70 pUoe 
I would  go  and  seek  my  fortunes  in  some  rich  and  civilised  country 
under  the  protection  of  a great  prince.” 

“ What  prince  do  you  mean  ? ” asked  Consuelo,  who  was  not  a little 
surprised  at  this  insinuation. 

“ Oh  I on  my  honor  I do  not  know  what  prince;  there  are  plenty 
of  them.” 

“ But  is  not  the  Queen  of  Hungary  a great  princess  ? ” asked  Haydn. 
“ Is  not  one  protected  in  her  states  ? ” 

“Oh!  certainly,”  replied  Mayer;  “but  you  do  not  seem  to  know 
that  Maria  Theresa  detests  music,  and  vagabonds  yet  more ; an  1 that 
you  will  certainly  be  driven  out  of  Vienna,  if  you  make  your  appear- 
ance in  the  streets  in  the  guise  of  troubadours  as  you  are  now.” 

At  that  moment  Consuelo  again  caught  a glimpse,  against  a dark 
back-ground,  far  below  the  road,  of  the  lights  she  had  seen  before,  and 

Sointed  them  out  to  Joseph,  who  immediately  signified  to  M.  Mayer 
is  desire  to  leave  the  carriage,  in  order  to  obtain  a night’s  lodging 
nearer  than  Biberach. 

“Those!”  exclaimed  M.  Mayer,  “you  take  those  for  lights,  hey ? 
They  are  lights,  in  truth ; but  they  are  lights,  which  will  guide  you 
into  no  better  lodgings  than  dangerous  swamps,  in  which  many  a 
traveller  has  been  swallowed  up.  Have  you  never  seen  a Will-o’the* 
Wisp?  ” 

“ Often  on  the  lagoons  of  Venice”  replied  Consuelo,  “ and  on  the 
small  lakes  in  Bohemia.” 

“ Well,  my  children,  those  lights  are  neither  more  nor  less  than 
that.” 

And  thereupon,  M.  Mayer  continued  for  a lopg  time  insisting  upon 
it  to  our  young  friends,  that  they  ought  to  establish  themselves ; and 
descanting  on  the  difficulties  they  would  have  to  encounter  in  Vienna, 
but  still  without  recommending  any  particular  place  to  them.  Joseph 
was  much  struck  at  first  by  his  obstinacy,  and  was  inclined  to  fear 
that  he  had  discovered  Consuelo’s  sex ; but  the  good  faith  with  which 
he  seemed  to  address  her  as  a boy — going  so  far  as  to  advise  her 
^ather  to  adopt  the  military  life,  as  soon  as  she  should  be  of  age  to  do 
si,  than  to  go  tramping  about  the  country — reassured  him  on  this 
point ; and  he  convinced  himself  at  last  that  M.  Mayer  was  one  of 
those  weak-headed  men,  who  continue  repeating  all  day  long  the  first 
notion  that  has  come  into  their  head  on  awaking.  Consuelo,  on  the 
other  hand,  took  him  for  a schoolmaster  or  a Protestant  minister, 
whose  whole  mind  was  fixed  on  education,  morals,  and  proselytizing. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  they  arrived  at  Biberach,  when  ^£3  night 
had  become  so  dark,  that  they  could  literally  distinguish  nothing. 
The  carriage  stopped  in  the  court-yard  of  an  inn,  where  he  was  in- 
stantly accosted  by  two  men,  who  took  him  aside  to  speak  with  him. 
When  they  came  into  the  kitchen,  where  Consuelo  and  Joseph  were 
warming  themselves  and  drying  their  clothes  by  the  fire,  Joseph 
recognised  in  those  two  persons  the  men  who  had  parted  from 
Mayer  at  the  ferry  of  the  Moldau,  where  he  had  crossed  over,  leaving 
them  on  the  left  bank.  One  of  the  two  was  one-eyed,  and  the  othei; 
although  he  had  both  his  eyes,  was  hardly  the  better  looking.  He 
who  had  crossed  the  water  with  M.  Mayer,  and  whom  our  travellers 
found  in  the  carriage,  soon  came  to  join  them,  but  the  fourth  man 
did  not  make  his  appearance.  They  all  talked  together  in  a language 
that  was  incomprehensible  even  to  Consuelo,  who  understood  m 


CONSUELO, 


8*7 


many  tongues,  M.  Mayer  appearing  to  exercise  some  sort  cf  authority 
over  them,  or  at  least  to  influence  all  their  decisions;  for  after  a very 
animated  though  whispered  conversation  they  retired,  with  the  exceiv 
tion  of  him  whom  Consuelo  styled,  in  her  conversation  with  Joseph, 
the  silent  man.  He  it  was  who  never  left  M.  Mayer. 

Joseph  was  just  making  preparations  to  have  a frugal  meal  served 
for  himself  and  Consuelo  on  the  end  of  the  kitchen  table,  when  M. 
Mayer  entered  the  room,  and  invited  them  to  sup  with  him,  insisted 
on  it  so  good-humoredly,  that  they  did  not  dare  to  refuse.  He  led 
them  at  once  into  the  dining-room,  where  they  found  an  absolute 
feast,  or  what  appeared  a feast  to  them  who  had  not  enjoyed  anything 
like  a comfortable  meal,  during  five  days  spent  in  a long  and  toilsome 
journey. 

Consuelo,  however,  was  exceeding  moderate  in  her  enjoyment  of 
the  good  things  set  before  them.  For  the  good  cheer  which  M.  May- 
er made,  the  attention  of  the  servants  who  waited  on  him,  and  the 
quantity  of  wine  which  he  drank,  as  did  his  silent  comrade  also,  com- 
pelled her  to  abate  not  a little  of  the  high  opinion  she  had  formed  of 
the  puritanical  virtues  of  their  entertainers.  She  was  shocked  at  the 
8argerness  he  showed  to  make  her  and  Joseph  drink  beyond  what 
they  desired,  and  at  the  vulgar  jollity  with  which  he  prevented  them 
from  mixing  their  wine  with  water.  She  also  observed,  much  to  hei 
annoyance,  that,  whether  from  absence  of  mind,  or  from  an  absolute 
necessity  of  repairing  his  strength,  Joseph  was  giving  way  to  his 
humor,  and  was  becoming  much  more  animated  and  communicative 
than  he  desired.  At  last  she  became  almost  angry,  when  she  found 
that  he  was  insensible  to  the  jogs  which  she  gave  him  with  her  elbow 
in  order  to  arrest  the  frequency  of  his  libations,  and  withdrawing  his 
glass  at  the  moment,  when  M.  Mayer  was  about  to  fill  it  again — “ No, 
Monseiur,”  she  said,  “ pardon  us  that  we  do-not  follow  your  example. 
It  does  not  suit  us.” 

“ You  are  queer  musicians,”  said  Mayer,  laughing  frankly  and  care- 
lessly; “ musicians  who  do  not  drink.  Well,  you  are  the  first  of  that 
kind  I have  ever  met.” 

“ And  you,  monsieur,  are  not  you  too  a musician?  ” asked  Joseph. 
M I would  lay  a wager  that  you  are.  The  deuce  take  me,  if  you  are 
not  a chapel  master  in  some  Saxon  Principality.” 

“ Perhaps  I am,”  replied  Mayer,  smiling,  “ and  it  is  on  that  account 
that  you  inspire  me  with  sympathy,  my  children.” 

“ If  monsieur  is  a master,”  said  Consuelo,  “ there  is  too  much  dif- 
ference between  his  talents  and  those  of  poor  street  singers,  such  as 
we.” 

“ There  are  poor  street  singers,  who  have  more  talents  than  people 
give  them  credit  for;  and  there  are  great  masters,  aye ! chapel  master* 
to  the  greatest  sovereigns  in  the  world,  who  began  their  career  by  be- 
ing street  singers. — What  if  I were  to  tell  you  that  I heard  this  morn- 
ing, on  the  left  bank  of  the  Moldau,  two  charming  voices  issuing  from 
A nook  of  the  mountain,  as  they  sang  a pretty  Italian  duet,  accom- 
panied by  very  agreeable,  not  to  say  scientific,  ritornellas  on  the 
violin  l Well,  that  very  thing  happened  to  me,  as  I was  breakfasting 
with  my  friends  on  the  hill  side ; and  yet,  when  I saw  the  musician* 
who  had  delighted  me  so  much,  coming  down  the  hill,  I was  much 
astonished  to  see  only  two  poor  children,  the  one  clad  like  a little 
shepherd,  the  other,  very  genteel,  rery  artless,  and  yet,  apparently, 
very  little  favored  by  fortune.  Be  not,  tkevefores  either  ashamed  m 
9k 


838 


CONSUELO, 


surprised  at  the  friendship  which  I show  you^  my  young  friends;  but 
do  me  the  favor  to  drink  with  me  to  the  muses,  who  are  our  common 
patronesses.” 

“ Monsieur  Maestro!”  exclaimed  Joseph, new  completely  won  over 
and  in  the  highest  spirits,  “I  will  drink  to  your  health.  Oh!  you 
are  a true  musician,  I am  certain  of  it,  since  you  are  so  enthusiastic 
about  the  talents  of of  Signor  Bertoni,  my  companion.” 

“ No,  you  shall  drink  no  more,”  cried  Consuelo,  impatiently  snatch- 
ing his  glass  away  from  him,  “nor  will  I either.  We  have  only  our 
voices  by  which  to  live,  Monsieur  Professor,  and  wine  spoils  the  voice 
you  ought,  therefore,  to  encourage  us  to  remain  sober,  instead  of  en- 
deavoring to  debauch  us.” 

“ Well,  you  speak  reasonably,”  said  Mayer,  as  he  replaced  the  water 
decanter,  which  he  had  set  behind  him,  on  the  middle  of  the  table. 
M Yes;  take  care  of  your  voices  by  all  means.  That  is  well  said.  You 
are  more  prudent  than  your  age  promises  for  you,  friend  Bertoni ; and 
1 am  glad  we  have  seen  your  conduct  so  far  tested.  You  will  succeed 
—1  am  sure  of  it — as  much  from  your  prudence  as  from  your  talent 
You  will  succeed,  and  I shall  be  happy  to  contribute  to  your  success.” 

And,  thereupon,  the  pretended  professor,  taking  things  qijite  at  his 
ease,  and  speaking  with  an  air  of  extreme  kindness  and  frankness, 
offered  to  take  them  with  him  to  Dresden,  where  he  offered  to  pro- 
cure them  lessons  from  the  celebrated  Hasse,  and  the  special  protec- 
tion of  the  Queen  of  Poland,  who  was  princess  electoral  of  Saxony. 
That  princess,  who  was  the  wife  of  Augustus  III.  King  of  Poland, 
was  herself  a pupil  of  Porpora.  Between  the  master  and  the  Sassone ,* 
there  was  a rivalry  for  the  favors  of  that  princess,  who  had  herself 
been  their  first  cause  of  enmity.  Even  if  Consuelo  had  felt  disposed, 
therefore,  to  seek  her  fortunes  in  the  north  of  Germany,  she  would 
not  have  chosen  that  court  wherein  to  make  her  first  appearance, 
since  she  well  knew  that  she  should  there  find  herself  in  a contest 
with  the  school  and  clique  which  had  triumphed  over  her  master. 
She  had  so  often  heard  him  speak  of  them  during  his  hours  of  wrath 
and  bitterness,  that,  in  any  circumstances,  she  would  have  felt  no  dis- 
position to  follow  the  counsels  of  Professor  Mayer. 

As  to  Joseph,  however,  his  position  was  widely  different  Hav- 
ing become  heated  with  wine  during  supper,  he  fancied  that  he  had 
found  a powerful  protector,  and  promoter  of  his  future  fortunes.  The 
thought  of  abandoning  Consuelo  had  not  indeed  entered  his  head,  but 
being  slightly  intoxicated  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  hope  of  meeting 
him  again  at  some  future  day.  He  put  full  confidence  in  his  good 
will,  and  thanked  him  very  warmly.  In  the  enthusiasm  of  the  mo- 
ment, he  even  took  up  his  violin  and  began  to  play  it,  entirely  out  of 
tune — M.  Mayer  applauding  him  all  the  time,  either  because  he  did 
not  like  to  offend  him  by  observing  his  false  notes,  or,  as  Consuelo 
thought  because,  being  himself  a very  bad  musician,  he  did  not  per- 
ceive it.  The  error  in  which  he  continued  concerning  her  own  sex, 
although  he  had  heard  her  sing,  had  proved  to  her  satisfactorily  that 
he  could  be  no  practised  musician,  since  he  had  suffered  himself  to  be 
deceived,  so  that  no  village  serpent-player  or  trumpet  major  could 
have  been  imposed  upon  more  thoroughly.  Still  M.  Mayer  insisted 
that  they  should  suffer  hf.m  to  carry  them  on  to  Dresden;  and 

• This  was  a surname  given  by  the  Italians  to  John  Adolphus  Hasse  who  was  a 
Qaxon  by  birth. 


coast  ilo< 


III 


iltitOBch  he  still  refused,  Joseph  listened  te  his  offers  as  if  he  was 
daisied  by  them,  and  made  such  promises  of  going  thither  at  the 
shortest  possible  notice,  that  Consuelo  felt  herself  compelled  to  unde- 
ceive M.  Mayer  as  to  the  possibility  of  such  an  arrangement  “ You 
must  not  think  of  anything  of  the  sort  at  present,”  said  she,  in  a very 
firm  tone,  “Joseph;  for  you  are  perfectly  aware  that  it  cannot  be, 
since  you  have  yourself  very  different  prospects.”  Mayer  renewed 
his  attractive  offers,  and  seemed  much  surprised  at  her  refusing  them 
as  did  Joseph  also,  who  seemed  to  recover  his  reason  so  soon  as  the 
Signor  Bertoni  took  up  the  word. 

While  this  was  going  on,  the  silent  traveller — who  had  appeared  but 
for  a short  time  during  supper — came  to  call  M.  Mayer,  who  left  the 
room  in  his  company.  Consuelo  took  advantage  of  the  interruption 
to  scold  J oseph  for  the  readiness  with  which  he  listened  to  the  fine 
words  of  the  first  comer,  and  to  inspiration  of  strong  wine. 

“ Have  I said  anything  which  I should  not  have  said?”  asked  Jo- 
seph, who  was  now  alarmed  at  his  own  imprudence. 

“ No,”  she  replied ; “ but  it  is  sufficiently  imprudent  in  itself  to  have 
kept  company  for  so  long  a time  with  strangers.  The  longer  they 
look  at  me,  the  more  chance  there  is  of  their  beginning  to  suspect 
that  I am  not  a boy.  It  is  all  to  no  purpose  that  I strive  to  blacken  ray 
hands  with  chalk,  and  that  I keep  them  under  the  table  as  much  as  I 
can;  for  they  must  have  remarked  their  weakness  and  delicacy,  if 
luckily  they  had  not  both  been  engaged — the  one  with  the  bottle,  and 
the  other  with  the  sound  of  his  own  voice.  Now  the  most  prudent 
thing  for  us  to  do,  1§  to  take  ourselves  hence,  and  go  sleep  in  some  other 
inn;  for  I am  by  no  means  easy  with  these  new  acquaintances,  who 
•eem  determined  to  attach  themselves  to  our  steps.” 

“What?”  cried  Joseph,  “runoff  disgracefully  like  ungrateful 
wretches,  without  saying  adieu,  or  thanking  this  great  man,  this  illus- 
trious professor  ? Who  knows  if  it  may  not  be  the  great  Hasse,  with 
whom  we  have  been  supping  ? ” 

“ Believe  me,  I can  assure  you  that  it  is  not— and  if  you  had  your 
wits  about  you,  you  would  have  remarked  a quantity  of  wretched 
commonplaces  which  he  has  uttered  about  music.  So  do  not  masters 
talk.  He  is  some  musician  from  the  lower  ranks  of  the  orchestra — 
jolly,  a great  talker,  and  a bit  of  a drunkard ; I don’t  know  it  is  so, 
but  I think  I can  see  in  his  face  that  he  has  never  done  more  than 


“A  cornet,  or  a second  clarion!  ” said  Joseph,  bursting  out  laugh- 
ing. “ Well,  whichever  he  is,  he  is  a very  pleasant  companion.” 

“It  is  much  more  than  you  are  then,”  said  Consuelo,  angrily. 
“ Come,  try  to  get  sober,  and  let  us  say  ‘ farewell,’  but  at  all  events 
let  us  go.” 

“The  rain  is  falling  in  torrents— listen  how  it  beats  against  the 
panes.” 

“ 1 hope  you  are  not  going  to  fall  asleep  on  the  table,”  said  Con- 
suelo, shaking  his  should  ?r  and  trying  to  awake  him. 

At  this  moment  M.  Mayer  entered.  “Well,  well,”  said  he  gaily, 
“ here  is  another  bore.  I thought  I could  have  slept  here,  and  gone 
on  to-morrow  to  Chamb ; but  my  friends  here  insist  that  I shall  go  on 
with  them  forthwith,  since  they  assert  that  I am  necessary  to  them 
for  the  arrangement  of  some  special  business  which  they  have  at  Pa* 
I must  yitid  » them.  And  on  my  word ! my  lads,  I can  give 


eOKIUSLft. 


MO 

no  better  advice  to  yon,  sinoe  I cannot  have  the  pleasure  of  taking 

you  on  with  me  to  Dresden,  than  that  you  would  profit  by  the 
chance.  I have  still  two  places  to  offer  you  in  my  carriage,  these 
gentlemen  having  their  own.  We  shall  be  at  Passau  to-morrow 
morning ; you  will  be  near  the  Austrian  frontier,  and  you  will  even  be 
able  to  go  down  the  Danube  to  Vienna  in  a boat  at  small  expense  and 
with  no  fatigue.” 

Joseph  thought  the  proposition  an  admirable  one  to  relieve  Con- 
suelo’s  swollen  feet.  The  occasion  seemed  in  fact  to  be  a good  one, 
and  sailing  down  the  Danube  was  a resource  of  which  they  had  not 
yet  thought.  Consuelo  therefore  consented,  seeing  that  Joseph 
would  not  agree  to  take  any  measures  of  precaution  as  to  their  lodg- 
ing that  night.  In  the  darkness,  huddled  up  in  the  corner  of  a car- 
riage, she  had  no  cause  to  fear  from  the  observation  of  their  travel- 
ling companions,  and  M.  Mayer  said  that  they  should  arrive  at  Passau 
before  daybreak.  Joseph  was  enchanted  at  her  resolution.  Still  Con- 
suelo felt,  I know  not  what,  of  repugnance  to  her  company,  and  the 
appearance  of  M.  Mayer’s  friends  by  no  means  removed  her  distaste. 
Sue  asked  him  if  they  were  musicians,  and  he  replied  laconically, 

“ All  of  them,  .more  or  less.” 

They  found  the  horses  harnessed,  the  drivers  on  their  seats,  and 
the  waiters  of  the  inn,  well  satisfied  with  M.  Mayer’s  liberality,  bus- 
tling about  him,  with  offers  of  service  to  the  very  last  moment.  In 
an  interval  of  silence,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  agitation,  Consuelo 
heard  a groan,  which  seemed  to  come  from  the  middle  of  the  court- 
yard. She  turned  round  to  Joseph  who  had  not  remarked  anything; 
and  this  groan  being  a second  time  repeated,  she  felt  a cold  shudder 
run  through  all  her  limbs.  Still  ,she  could  not  discover  any  person 
who  had  uttered  these  complaints,  and  began  to  attribute  it  to  some 
dog  wearied  of  remaining  on  his  chain.  For  all  that  she  could  do, 
however,  the  sound  had  made  a painful  impression  on  her.  The 
smothered  complaint,  uttered  in  the  midst  of  deep  darkness,  of  wind 
and  rain,  uttered  from  the  centre  of  a group  of  persons,  who  were 
either  animated  or  indifferent,  without  any  possibility  of  her  discov- 
ering whether  it  was  a human  outcry,  or  merely  an  imaginary  sound, 
struck  her  at  once  with  fear  and  sadness.  She  began  at  once  to  think 
of  her  betrothed,  and,  as  if  she  believed  herself  capable  of  sharing 
those  mysterious  revelations  with  which  he  seemed  to  be  endowed, 
felt  alarmed  at  the  thought  of  some  danger  menacing  Albert  or 
herself. 

Nevertheless,  the  vehicle  got  under  way  at  once ; a stronger  horse 
than  the  first  drew  it  rapidly  forward.  The  other  carriage  proceeding 
at  an  equal  pace,  went  sometimes  ahead,  sometimes  behind  it.  Joseph 
had  begun  to  chatter  anew  with  M.  Mayer,  and  Consuelo,  endeavoring 
to  go  to  sleep,  pretended  to  be  asleep  already,  in  order  to  have  an 
excuse  for  holding  silence.  At  length  weariness  overcame  both  sadness 
and  disquietude,  and  she  fell  into  a deep  sleep. 

When  she  awoke,  Joseph  was  asleep  also,  and  at  last  M.  Mayer  was 
silent.  The  rain  had  ceasjd,  the  heavens  were  clear,  and  the  day  was 
beginning  to  dawn.  The  country  had  an  aspect  which  was  entirely 
unknown  to  Consuelo.  Only  from  time  to  time,  she  caught  glimpses 
on  the  horizon  of  the  summits  of  a mountain  chain,  which,  as  she 
thought,  resembled  the  Boehmer-wald. 

As  gradually  the  effect  of  the  lethargy  which  follows  sleep  passed 
away,  Consuelo  remarked,  not  without  surprise,  the  position  of  these 


©ONSUELO. 


341 


Mountains,  which  were  on  her  right,  when  they  ought  to  have  been 
on  her  left.  The  stars  had  set,  and  the  sun,  which  she  expected  to 
Me  rising  in  front  of  her,  had  not  yet  shown  himself.  She  began  to 
think  that  the  hills  she  was  looking  at,  must  be  a different  chain  from 
the  Boehmer-wald ; but  M.  Mayer  was  still  snoring,  and  she  did  not 
dare  to  address  the  driver,  who  was  the  only  person  in  the  carriage 
now  awake. 

The  horse  fell  to  a foot’s  pace  In  mounting  a very  steep  ascent,  and 
the  rumbling  of  the  wheels  was  lost  in  the  damp  sand  of  the  deep  ruts. 
It  was  at  this  moment  that  Consuelo  again  heard  the  same  stifled 
groan  which  she  had  previously  remarked  in  the  inn-yard  at  Biber&ch. 
The  sound  appeared  to  come  from  behind  her;  but  as  she  turned 
round  mechanically  and  saw  nothing  but  the  leathern  cushion  against 
which  she  was  leaning,  she  fancied  that  she  was  the  victim  of  some 
strange  hallucination,  and  her  thoughts  continually  falling  back  upon 
Albert,  she  persuaded  herself,  to  her  inexpressible  pain,  that  he  was 
in  agony,  and  that  she  received,  owing  to  the  incomprehensible  power 
of  this  strange  man’s  passion,  the  mournful  and  heart-rending  sound 
of  his  last  sighs.  This  fancy  so  completely  took  possession  of  her 
understanding,  that  she  felt  herself  on  the  point  of  fainting,  and  fear- 
ing that  she  should  actually  swoon  away,  she  asked  the  driver,  who 
had  stopped  half  way  up  the  hill,  to  allow  her  to  ascend  the  rest  of  it 
on  foot.  He  consented,  and  setting  foot  to  the  ground  himself,  he 
walked  along  beside  the  horse,  whistling  as  he  went. 

This  man  was  too  well  dressed  to  be  a driver  by  profession ; and 
Consuelo  thought  she  perceived,  in  a sudden  motion  which  he  made, 
that  he  had  pistols*  at  his  belt.  This  precaution,  in  a country  so  des- 
ert as  that  in  which  they  were  travelling,  was  entirely  unnatural: 
and  besides  this,  the  form  of  the  carriage,  which  Consuelo  examined 
as  she  walked  beside  the  wheel,  clearly  showed  that  it  contained 
merchandize  of  some  sort.  It  was  so  deep  that  there  must  have 
been  in  the  rear  of  the  back  seat,  a false  box,  like  those  in  which  des- 
patches or  valuable  freight  are  carried.  Nevertheless  it  did  not  ap- 
pear to  be  very  heavily  loaded,  since  one  horse  drew  it  with  ease. 
An  observation  which  she  made  astonished  Consuelo  yet  more ; for 
she  saw  her  shadow  stretching  out  on  the  ground  behind  her,  and  as 
she  turned  round  perceived  that  the  sun  was  completely  above  the 
horizon,  at  a point  diametrically  opposite  to  that  at  which  she  had 
expected  to  see  it,  had  the  carriage  really  been  going  in  the  direction 
of  Passau. 

“ In  which  direction  are  we  going  ? 99  she  asked  the  driver,  approach- 
ing his  side  quickly.  “ Surely  our  backs  are  turned  towards  Austria.” 

“ They  are  so, for  about  half-an-hour,”  said  he.  “We  are  turning 
back  on  our  course,  because  the  bridge  by  which  we  have  to  cross  the 
river  is  broken,  and  we  have  to  make  a circuit  of  half  a mile  before 
we  shall  find  another.” 

Consuelo,  a little  reassured  by  his  words,  got  into  the  carriage,  ex- 
changed a few  chance  words  with  M.  Mayer,  who  had  awakened,  and 
who  soon  fell  asleep  again— Joseph  not  having  so  much  as  stirred  in 
his  lethargic  sleep;  and  they  reached  the  summit  of  the  slope.  Con- 
suelo now  saw  a long,  steep,  winding  road  unfold  itself  before  her 
eyes,  and  the  river,  of  which  the  driver  had  spoken,  rolling  along  at 
the  bottom  of  a deep  gorge ; but  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  time 
was  no  bridge  in  Bight,  and  the  direction  kept  right  on  to  the  north- 
ward. Consuelo  frightened  anew,  and  more  uneasy  than  before ,j 


842 


CONSUELO, 


could  not  got  to  sleep  again.  A new  ascent  lay  before  them ; and  as 
the  horse  seemed  very  tired,  all  the  travellers,  except  Consuelo,  whose 
feet  were  still  much  swollen,  got  down  to  walk.  Again  the  deep 
groan  met  her  ears,  but  this  time  so  clearly,  and  with  so  many  repeti- 
tions, that  she  could  no  longer  attribute  it  to  any  deception  of  her 
senses.  The  sound  undoubtedly  issued  from  the  double  seat  of  the 
carriage.  She  examined  it  carefully,  and  discovered  in  the  corner 
in  which  M.  Mayer  sat  a little  leathern  air-hole  formed  like  a wicket, 
which  communicated  with  the  interior  of  the  double  bottom.  She 
tried  to  open  it  but  could  not  succeed,  for  it  was  locked,  and  the  key 
was,  probably,  in  the  pooket  of  the  pretended  professor. 

Consuelo,  who  was  ever  eager  and  ardent  in  adventures  of  this 
kind,  drew  from  her  fob  a strong,  sharp-bladed  knife,  with  which  she 
had  provided  herself  before  setting  out,  perhaps  from  an  instinct  of 
modesty,  and  with  some  vague  apprehension  of  those  worse  dangers 
from  which  suicide  may  preserve  an  energetic  and  high-spirited 
woman.  She  took  advantage  of  a moment  when  all  the  travellers, 
even  to  the  driver,  who  had  no  longer  anything  to  fear  from  the  ardor 
of  his  horse,  were  far  in  advance  up  the  road,  and  enlarging,  with  a 
prompt  and  steady  hand,  the  crack  between  the  cushion  and  the 
hinges  of  the  wicket,  placed  her  eye  to  the  aperture,  and  looked  into 
the  mysterious  place  of  concealment.  ' What  were  her  surprise  at£i 
terror,  when  she  distinguished,  in  that  dark  and  narrow  recess,  whiah 
received  air  and  light  only  by  a crevice  made  in  the  top,  a man  of 
athletic  frame,  gagged,  covered  with  blood,  with  his  hands  and  feet 
securely  pinioned,  and  his  body  doubled  up  in  a position  of  restraint 
and  anguish  which  must  have  been  almost  unendurable.  All  that 
•he  could  discover  of  his  face  was  remarkable  only  for  its  livid  pale- 
ness and  its  expression  of  convulsive  suffering. 


CHAPTER  LXXI. 

Literally  petrified  with  terror,  Consuelo  leaped  to  the  ground, 
and  having  overtaken  Joseph,  touched  his  elbow  secretly  as  a hint  to 
extricate  himself  from  the  group  in  his  company.  When  they  were 
a few  steps  ahead  of  the  others,  “ We  are  lost,”  said  she,  “if  we  do 
not  at  once  take  flight.  These  people  are  robbers  or  assassins ; I have 
just  seen  an  actual  proof  of  it.  Let  us  double  our  pace,  and  strike 
across  the  fields,  for  they  have  reasons  for  deceiving  us,  as  they  are 
doing.” 

Joseph  fancied  that  some  odious  dream  had  disturbed  his  compan- 
ion’s imagination ; indeed  he  scarcely  understood  what  she  was  saying 
to  him,  for  he  felt  himself  so  languid  and  so  much  exhausted,  that  his 
sensations  led  him  to  suspect  the  wine  which  he  had  drank  the  prece- 
ding night  to  have  been  drugged  by  Mie  landlord  with  heavy  and  in- 
toxicating mixtures.  It  is  certain,  indeed,  that  he  had  made  no  such 
trespass  on  his  habitual  sobriety  as  to  account  for  his  languor  and 
lethargy.  “ Dear  signora,”  he  replied,  “ you  have  the  nightmare,  and 
I believe  I have  it  myself  from  listening  to  you.  Even  if  these  good 
folks  were  banditti,  as  it  pleases  you  to  consider  them,  what  booty 
•ould  they  expect  to  gain  by  our  seizure  ? ” 


eoveuBto.  848 

* 1 know  not,  bu t I am  afraid ; and  if  you  had  seen  as  I hare,  a 
fcalf  murdered  man  n the  same  carriage  with  ourselves——” 

At  these  words,  Joseph  burst  out  laughing;  for  this  affirmation  on 
Consuelo’s  part  convinced  him  that  she  was  dreaming. 

M What  1 Do  you  not  at  least  see  that  they  are  leading  us  astray?  ” 
•he  continued  with  animation ; “ that  they  are  guiding  us  toward  the 
north,  while  Passau  and  the  Danube  are  behind  us  ? Look  at  the 
»un,  and  see  into  how  desert  a country  we  are  advancing,  instead  of 
into  the  neighborhood  of  a large  city.” 

The  justice  of  this  observation  at  length  struck  Joseph,  and  began 
to  dissipate  the  sort  of  lethargic  stupor  in  which  he  was  buried. 
“ Well,”  said  he,  “ let  us  go  on ; if  they  attempt  to  detain  us  against 
our  will,  we  shall  at  least  understand  their  intentions.” 

“And  if  we  cannot  escape  them  at  once,  Joseph,  we  must  keep  cool, 
do  you  understand  me?  We  must  try  which  are  the  subtler,  we  or 
they,  and  make  our  escape  at  some  other  time.” 

Then  she  drew  him  forward  by  the  arm,  pretending  to  be  lamer 
than  she  really  was,  but  still  gaining  ground  on  the  others.  They 
had  not,  however,  made  ten  steps  before  they  were  called  by  M. 
Mayer,  first  in  friendly  tones,  then  harshly,  and  at  last  by  the  others 
with  loud  and  energetic  oaths.  Joseph  turned  his  head,  and  saw  to 
his  utter  consternation  a pistol  levelled  at  him  by  the  driver,  who  was 
running  as  hard  as  he  could  in  pursuit  of  them. 

“ They  are  going  to  kill  us,”  he  exclaimed  to  Consuelo,  slackening 
his  pace  as  he  spoke. 

“ Are  we  out  of  shot  ? ” said  she  coolly,  still  drawing  him  forward 
and  beginning  to  run. 

“ I do  not  know,”  said  he,  u but  believe  me  the  moment  has  not 
come ; they  will  fire  upon  us.”  And  he  endeavored  to  stop  her  flight. 

“ Stop,  or  you  are  dead ! ” cried  the  driver,  who  ran  much  faster 
than  they,  and  had  them  already  within  easy  pistol-shot. 

“ It  is  time  then  to  make  up  by  self-assurance,”  said  Consuelo,  stop- 
ping short.  “Joseph,  speak  and  act  as  you  see  me  do.  Ah ! upon  my 
word!”  she  cried  aloud  as  she  turned  laughing,  with  the  ready  laugh- 
ter of  a good  actress,  “ if  my  feet  did  not  hurt  me  too  much  to  run 
any  further,  I would  let  you  see  that  your  joke  goes  for  nothing.” 
And  then  looking  at  Joseph,  who  was  as  pale  as  death,  she  affected  to 
laugh  at  him  with  all  her  heart,  showing  his  disturbed  and  dejected 
countenance  to  the  other  travellers  who  had  overtaken  them. 

“ He  really  believed  it,”  she  cried  with  perfectly  well  simulated  gaie- 
ty ^ “He  really  believed  it.  My  poor  comrade.  Ah!  Beppo,  I did 
not  think  your  were  such  a poltroon.  Ah ! Monsieur  Professor,  look 
at  Beppo,  who  really  believed  that  monsieur  was  going  to  send  a ball 
after  him.” 

Consuelo  affected  to  speak  in  Venetian,  thus  keeping  the  man  with 
a pistol  in  some  respect  by  her  mirth,  since  he  did  not  understand  a 
word  that  she  was  saying. 

— Turning  to  the  driver,  Mayer  said,  “ What  a miserable  joke  this  is — 
what  is  the  use  of  frightening  these  poor  children,”  with  a wink  of 
his  eye,  which  did  not  escape  the  notice  of  Consuelo. 

“ I wanted  to  see  if  they  had  any  courage,”  said  the  driver,  return- 
ing his  pistol  to  his  belt. 

“Alas!”  said  Consuelo  slily,  “Monsieur  will  have  a very  bad 
opinion  of  you  now,  my  friend  Joseph.  As  to  me,  I have  not  been 
afraid,  so  do  v a justice  on  that  score,  Monsieur  Pistolet  ” 


CO  N S U EL  )< 


844 

u You  are  a brave  ’ad,”  replied  M.  Mayer.  "You  would  make  a 
capital  drummer,  and  would  beat  the  charge  at  the  head  of  your 
regiment  without  winking  in  the  midst  of  the  grape  shot.” 

**  Oh  1 for  that  I can’t  say,”  she  replied.  “ Perhaps  I should  be 
afraid,  if  I had  believed  that  monsieur  was  really  going  to  shoot  us* 
But  we  Venetians  are  up  to  all  sorts  of  tricks,  and  cannot  be  caught 
thus.” 

“ That  Is  all  one,”  said  M.  Mayer.  “ Still  the  joke  was  in  bad  taste; 
and  addressing  himself  to  the  conductor,  he  seemed  to  scold  him  a 
ittle;  but  Consuelo  was  not  deceived,  for  she  understood  by  the  into- 
nation of  their  voices  that  an  explanation  was  going  on,  the  result  of 
which  seemed  to  be  their  conviction,  that  no  flight  was  intended. 

Consuelo  having  got  into  the  carriage  again  with  the  rest,  said  to 
M.  Mayer,  “ Admit  now,  that  your  driver  with  pistols  is  a curious 
subject  I shall  call  him  Signor  Pistola,  after  this.  And  now  you 
must  admit,  Signor  Professor,  that  it  is  not  a very  new  game  at  which 
to  play.” 

“ It  is  a German  joke,”  said  M.  Mayer.  “ In  Venice  folks  have 
more  wit  than  that,  have  they  not  ? ” 

“ Oh ! do  you  know  what  the  Italians  would  have  done  in  your 
place,  to  play  a good  trick  upon  us  ? They  would  have  dragged  the 
carriage  into  the  first  bushes  by  the  road-side,  and  would  have  all  hid 
themselves  there.  Then  when  we  returned,  seeing  no  carriage,  and 
supposing  that  the  devil  had  carried  everything  away,  who  would 
have  been  caught  then?  Most  of  all,  I,  who  am  so  lame  that  I can 
hardly  walk,  and  next  to  myself,  Joseph,  who  is  as  cowardly  as  a 
Bdehmer-wald  cow,  and  who  would  have  fancied  himself  forsaken  in 
the  desert.” 

M.  Mayer  laughed  at  these  childish  witticisms,  which  he  translated 
at  full  length  to  Signor  Pistola , who  was  amused  as  much  as  he  was 
himself  at  the  simplicity  of  the  gondolier.  “ Oh ! you  are  too  wide 
awake!  ” returned  Mayer.  “ No  one  will  trouble  himself  to  play  you 
any  more  tricks,”  and  Consuelo,  who  could  discover  the  concealed 
irony  of  the  pretended  jovial  good  man,  through  his  frank  air  of  pa- 
ternal good  nature,  continued  in  playing  her  part  of  a simpleton,  fan- 
cying herself  clever,  which  is  a well  known  fact  in  every  melodrama. 

It  is  certain  that  their  adventure  had  become  very  serious;  and 
even  while  she  was  playing  her  part  with  ability,  Consuelo  felt  that 
she  was  almost  in  a fever.  Fortunately,  fever  is  a condition  in  which 
we  act,  lethargy  is  that  in  which  we  give  way  to  circumstances. 
Thereafter,  she  continued  to  show  herself  as  gay  as  she  had  previously 
been  reserved,  and  Joseph,  who  seemed  to  have  recovered  his  faculties, 
seconded  her  admirably.  All  the  time  appearing  to  entertain  no 
doubt  but  that  they  were  approaching  Passau,  they  pretended  to  have 
an  ear  open  to  the  propositions  which  M.  Mayer  continued  to  make 
to  them,  cf  proceeding  to  Dresden.  By  this  means  they  gained  his 
entirs  confidence,  and  even  se*  him  about  devising  some  plan  for  in- 
forming them  that  he  was  taking  them  thither  without  their  own  per- 
mission. This  expedient  was  soon  found,  for  M.  Mayer  was  no  no- 
vice in  abductions  of  this  kind.  Then  passed  a long  dialogue  between 
the  three  individuals,  M.  Mayer,  Signor  Pistola,  and  the  silent  man, 
In  their  unknown  tongue,  and  after  that,  they  all  began  to  talk  Ger- 
man, as  if  they  were  merely  proceeding  on  the  same  toj:  ic.  “ I told 
you  so,”  cried  M.  Mayer,  “ we  have  missed  the  road ; a proof  of  which 
Is,  that  their  carriage  does  not  overtake  us.  It  is  more  than  two  hours 


f 


CONSU  ELO, 


846 


Am  we  left  them  behind  us,  and  . looked  all  in  vain  from  the  sum* 
■ait  of  the  hill,  for  there  was  nothing  in  sight.” 

* I cannot  see  anything  of  them,”  said  the  driver,  putting  his  head 
out  of  the  carriage  and  affecting  to  look  back,  after  which  he  sat 
down  again,  looking  annoyed  and  discouraged. 

Consuelo  had  long  before  remarked  from  the  first  hill-top,  that  tLc 
other  carriage,  in  company  with  which  they  had  set  forth  from  Ber 
berach,  had  not  made  its  appearance. 

“I  was  sure  we  had  lost  our  way,”  said  Joseph,  “bdt  I would  nos 
■ay  so.” 

“ And  why  the  devil  would  not  you  say  so?”  asked  the  driver, 
affecting  to  be  very  greatly  displeased. 

u Because  it  amused  me,”  said  Joseph,  who  was  beginning  to  take 
his  cue  from  Consuelo’s  innocent  trickery.  M It  seems  so  droll  to  lose 
his  way  in  a carriage,  I thought  one  only  did  so  afoot.” 

“ Ah ! well,  it  amuses  me  too ; I would  not  care  much,  if  we  were 
on  the  road -to  Dresden.” 

“ Nor  I either,  my  lads,  if  I but  knew  where  we  are,”  said  M. 
Mayer.  " For  I must  confess  I was  by  no  means  well  pleased  at  going 
to  rassau  with  my  friends,  and  I should  not  be  sorry  to  find  that  we 
had  turned  far  enough  off  the  road  to  feel  ourselves  constrained  to 
show  them  no  further  civility.” 

“ Upon  my  word,  Monsieur  Professor,  it  shall  be  just  as  you  would 
have  it ; it  is  all  your  affair.  If  we  are  not  in  your  way,  and  you  still 
wish  to  have  us  to  Dresden  with  you,  I am  ready  to  stick  to  you,  if  it 
were  to  the  end  of  the  world ; and  you,  Bertoni,  what  say  you  to  it  ? ” 
“ I say  the  same,”  replied  Consuelo,— “ Sail  on  the  bark,  since  we 
are  once  in  it.” 

44  You  are  brave  lads,”  said  Mayer,  concealing  his  real  joy  under  an 
air  of  absence,  “ but  I would  fain  know  where  we  are.” 

Wherever  we  are,”  replied  the  driver,  “ we  have  got  to  stop ; for 
the  horse  cannot  go  a yard  farther ; he  has  eaten  nothing  since  yester- 
day, and  has  travelled  all  night  long.  We  shall  none  of  us  be  sorry 
peat  or  small,  to  take  a little  refreshment  here.  Here  is  a little  wood, 
let.  us  stop  and  rest.  We  have  got  some  provisions  left.  Halt  here ! ” 
They  entered  the  wood — the  horse  was  unharnessed.  J oseph  and 
Consuelo  eagerly  offered  their  aid.  The  carriage  was  let  down  so  as 
to  rest  on  the  shafts,  and  the  change  rendered  the  position  of  the  pris- 
oner yet  more  painful.  Consuelo  again  heard  him  groan,  as  did 
Mayer  also,  who  looked  steadily  at  Consuelo  to  see  if  she  had  observed 
it;  but  in  despite  of  the  pity  which  she  felt  to  the  bottom  of  her  heart, 
she  remained  impassive.  Mayer  now  walked  round  the  carriage,  and 
Consuelo  saw  him  unlock  a small  door  in  the  exterior  of  the  vehicle, 
look  into  the  secret  compartments,  lock  it  up  again,  and  put  the  key 
in  his  pocket.” 

if  Is  our  merchandise  damaged  ? ” asked  the  silent  man  of  Mayer. 

“ All  is  well,”  replied  the  other,  with  cold  indifference,  and  he  at 
once  applied  himself  to  preparing  for  breakfast. 

u Now,”  said  Consuelo  quickly  to  Joseph,  as  she  passed  closely 
beside  him,  i(  do  as  you  see  me  do,  and  follow  close  on  my  steps,” 
and  she  bustled  about,  arranging  the  provisions  on  the  grass,  and 
uncorking  the  bottles.  M.  Mayer  was  well  pleased  to  see  these  volun- 
teer servants  devoting  themselves  to  his  pleasure,  for  Joseph  affected 
to  imitate  his  companion  eagerly.  For  the  pretended  professor  loved 
kis  ease,  and  applied  himself  to  eat  and  drink  with  his  companions  with 


COWITJELO, 


146 

greater  gluttony,  and  greater  coarseness  of  manner  than  he  had  display- 
ed on  the  preceding  evening/  He  held  out  his  glass  every  minute  or  twe 
to  his  new  pages,  who  every  minute,  rose,  sat  down  again*  set  forth 
once  more,  and  ran  about  from  place  to  place,  watching  an  opportu- 
nity to  run  off  once  for  ill,  but  waiting  until  wine  and  the  progress 
of  digestion  should  render  their  dangerous  guardians  less  clear-sighted. 
M.  Mayer  stretched  himself  out  on  the  grass,  and  unbuttoned  his  vest, 
showing  his  broad  chest  well  garnished  with  pistols,  glittering  in  the 
sunshine.  The  driver  went  to  see  whether  the  horse  was  feeding 
well,  and  the  silent  man  set  out  to  seek  a place  in  the  muddy  stream, 
by  the  banks  of  which  they  had  stopped,  where  the  horse  could  drink. 
This  was  their  signal  for  flight.  Consuelo  pretended  to  be  seeking 
with  them  also,  and  Joseph  buried  himself  also  in  the  underwood. 
Scarcely  had  they  well  concealed  themselves  among  the  dense  foliage, 
before  they  began  to  run  like  two  hares  through  the  coppices.  There 
was  little  danger  of  a bullet  reaching  them  in  that  close  underwood ; 
and  when  they  heard  a shout  recalling  them,  they  judged  themselves 
already  far  enough  off  to  continue  their  flight  without  fear. 

“ We  had  better  answer  them,”  said  Consuelo.  “ It  will  lull  suspi- 
cion, and  give  us  time  to  take  another  start  of  running.” 

Thereupon  Joseph  cried—"  This  way,  this  way— here  is  water— here 
is  a spring.”  And,  “ A spring!  a spring!  ” cried  Consuelo.  And  in- 
itpntly,  striking  off  at  a right  angle  to  their  former  course,  they  fled 
lightly,  Consuelo  thought  no  more  of  her  sore  and  swollen  feet. 
Joseph  had  triumphed  over  the  narcotic  which  M.  Mayer  had  given 
him  on  the  preceding  day.  Fear  lent  wings  to  their  flight. 

Thus  they  ran  for  about  ten  minutes,  in  a direction  different  from 
that  which  they  had  at  first  taken,  not  giving  themselves  the  time  to 
listen  to  the  voices,  which  were  calling  after  them,  from  two  different 
sides,  until  they  reached  the  skirts  of  the  wood,  and  beyond  that  a 
very  steep  descending  slope,  covered  with  turf,  having  a beaten  road, 
and  moorlands  interspersed  with  clumps  of  tree3. 

“ Do  not  let  us  leave  the  wood,”  said  Joseph.  “ They  will  soon  be 
here,  and  they  will  be  able  to  see  us,  in  whatever  direction  we  attempt 
to  go.” 

Consuelo  hesitated  for  a moment,  surveying  the  country  with  a rapid 
dance,  and  said — “ The  wood  is  too  small  to  shelter  us  long.  There 
is  a road  before  us,  and  on  it  we  have  a hope  of  meeting  some  one.” 
“Alas!”  cried  Joseph,  “it  is  the  very  road  along  which  we  have 
been  travelling.  See,  it  winds  round  the  hill,  and  ascends  to  the  right 
toward  the  spot  where  we  have  come.  If  any  one  of  them  mount  the 
horse,  he  will  catch  us  before  we  reach  the  foot  of  the  slope.” 

“ We  must  try  that,”  said  Consuelo.  “ One  runs  quickly  running 
down  hill.  I see  something  on  the  road  yonder,  something  coming 
this  way.  We  have  only  to  reach  it  before  we  are  ourselves  overtaken, 
and  we  are  in  safety.  Come.” 

There  was  no  time  to  lose  in  deliberation.  Joseph  trusted  to  Con* 
suelo’s  instinct,  and  the  slope  was  descended  in  an  instant — so  quickly 
did  they  run.  They  had  reacned  the  cover  of  the  first  clump  of  trees 
when  they  heard  the  voices  of  their  pursuers  on  the  outside  of  the 
skirts  of  the  wood.  This  time,  they  took  good  care  to  return  no 
answer,  but  ran  onward  under  the  shelter  of  the  bushes  and  trees, 
until  they  came  to  a runlet  in  very  deep  banks,  which  these  same 
trees  had  concealed  from  them.  A long  plank  bridged  it,  across 
Which  they  ran,  and  then  cast  the  plank  back  into  the  water. 


«OKStTSLO. 


847 


Having  reached  the  farther  bank,  they  hurried  down  It,  still  shelter- 
ad  from  view  by  the  thick  vegetation,  and  not  having  any  farther 
calls,  they  judged  that  they  had  either  outstripped  pursuit,  or  that 
their  pursuers  had  discovered  their  intentions,  and  expected  to  take 
them  by  surprise.  Ere  long,  however,  the  vegetation  on  the  banks 
became  thin,  and  ceased  altogether;  and  they  stopped,  fearful  of  be- 
ing discovered.  Joseph  advanced  his  head  carefully  from  among  the 
last  bushes,  and  saw  one  of  the  brigands  on  the  watch  on  the  skirts 
of  the  wood,  and  the  other,  apparently  Signor  Pistola,  of  whose 
superior  speed  they  had  already  made  trial,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and 
not  far  distant  from  the  rivulet.  While  Joseph  was  thus  reconnoiter- 
ing  the  position  of  the  enemy,  Consuelo  had  turned  to  watch  the  line 
of  the  high  road.  At  this  instant  she  came  back  to  Joseph.  “ It  is  a 
carriage  which  is  coming,”  she  cried.  “ We  are  saved.  We  must 
reach  it  before  our  pursuers  discover  that  we  have  crossed  the  water. 

They  ran  down  in  a right  line  toward  the  high  road,  across  the 
opr;*  ground.  The  carriage  came  toward  them  at  a gallop.  “Oh! 
Heaven  I ” exclaimed  Joseph,  “ if  this  other  carriage  should  contain 
their  accomplices  1 ” 

“No,”  replied  Consuelo.  “It  is  a berlin,  with  six  horses,  two 
postilions,  and  two  couriers.  We  are  saved,  I tell  you,  if  you  wil1  but 
have  a little  courage.” 

It  was,  indeed,  time  that  they  should  reach  the  road.  Pistola  had 
found  the  track  of  their  feet  in  the  sand  by  the  rivulet’s  brink.  He 
had  the  speed  and  strength  of  a wild  boar,  and  following  rapidly  on 
their  track,  found  the  spot  where  their  traces  were  lost,  and  the  piles 
which  had  supported  the  plank.  He  easily  divined  the  trick,  passed 
the  stream  by  swimming,  and  finding  their  footsteps  again  on  the 
farther  shore,  pursued  them  still,  until,  on  coming  out  of  the  bushes, 
he  discovered  them  in  full  flight  across  the  heather,  but  he  discovered 
the  carriage  also,  understood  their  plan,  and  feeling  himself  unable  to 
oppose  it,  returned  into  the  cover  of  the  underwood,  and  held  him- 
self there  on  his  guard. 

At  the  cries  of  the  two  young  persons,  who  were  at  first  taken  for 
beggars,  the  berlin  did  not  stop.  The  travellers  threw  out  some  pieces 
of  money,  and  the  outriders  seeing  that  they  did  not  pick  them  up, 
but  continued  to  run  after  the  carriage,  came  on  at  a gallop  to  deliver 
their  masters  from  the  annoyance.  Consuelo,  entirely  out  of  breath, 
and  losing  her  strength,  as  so  often  happens,  at  the  very  moment 
when  success  seems  certain,  could  not  utter  a word,  but  clasped  her 
hands  in  supplication,  still  following  the  riders;  while  Joseph  clung 
to  the  carriage  door  at  the  risk  of  losing  his  hold,  and  being  crushed 
under  the  wheels,  crying  in  a panting  voice — “ Help ! help  I we  are 
pursued— robbers  I assassins ! ” One  of  the  two  travellers,  who  sat  in 
the  berlin,  caught  some  of  his  broken  words,  and  made  a sign  to  one 
of  the  couriers  to  stop  the  postilions.  And  then  Consuelo,  who  had 
seized  the  bridle  of  one  of  the  horses,  to  which  she  had  clung  in 
spite  of  the  animal’s  curvetting,  and  the  menace  of  the  rider’s  whip, 
came  up  and  joined  Joseph,  when  her  countenance,  flushed  and  ani- 
mated with  running,  struck  both  the  travellers,  who  had  already  en- 
tered into  conversation.  “ What  is  all  this  ? ” said  one  of  them. 
“ This  is  a new  way  of  asking  charity.  We  have  already  given  you 
alms — what  would  you  have  more  ? Cannot  you  answer  ? ” 

Consuelo  seemed  ready  to  expire  on  the  spot.  Joseph,  who  was 
^xiite  out  uf  breath,  could  only  cry — “Save  us,  save  us! ” and  pointed 
the  woods  and  the  hillside,  still  unable  to  enunciate  a word. 


CONSUKtO, 


843 

u They  look  like  foxes  hard  pressed  In  the  chase,"  said  the  other  of 
the  two.  “Let  us  till  they  recover  their  speech,"  and  the  two 
magnificently  appareled  lords  looked  down  upon  the  poor  fugitives 
with  a smile,  and  a collected  look,  which  was  in  strange  contrast  with 
theagi  tation  of  the  poor  fugitives. 

At  length  Joseph  recovered  breath  enough  to  articulate  the  words 
— “Robbers  and  assassins;”  and  thereupon  the  noble  travellers 
ordered  the  carriage  doors  to  be  opened,  and  going  out  upon  the  steps, 
gazed  in  all  directions,  with  an  air  of  surprise  which  grew  into  aston- 
ishment, when  they  discovered  nothing  to  justify  such  an  alarm ; for 
the  brigands  having  concealed  themselves,  the  country  was  entirely 
deserted  and  silent.  At  length  Consuelo  recovered  breath  enough  to 
speak  to  them,  though  she  was  still  obliged  to  pause  at  every  phrase 
to  collect  herself. 

“We  are  two  poor  travelling  musicians,”  said  she.  “ We  have 
been  carried  off  by  men  whom  we  do  not  know,  and  who,  under  the 
pretext  of  serving  us,  persuaded  us  to  go  into  their  carriage  and 
obliged  us  to  travel  with  them  all  night.  At  day-break  we  perceived 
that  they  were  deceiving  us  and  carrying  us  toward  the  north,  instead 
of  keeping  the  road  to  Vienna.  We  endeavored  to  fly,  but  they 
forced  us  back  at  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol.  At  last  they  stopped  in 
yon  wood — we  escaped  and  ran  down  to  your  carriage.  If  you  for- 
sake us  we  are  lost.  They  are  within  two  or  three  steps  of  the  road 
—one  among  the  bushes,  and  the  other  in  the  woods':” 

“ How  many  of  them  are  there  ? ” asked  one  of  the  outriders. 
“My,  friend,”  replied  one  of  the  travellers  in  French — he  to  whom 
Consuelo  had  addressed  herself,  being  the  nearest  to  the  place  by 
which  she  was  standing— “ be  so  good  as  to  remember  that  it  is  no 
concern  of  yours.  How  many  are  there? — a pretty  question,  truly! 
Your  business  is  to  fight  if  I desire  you  to  do  so,  and  I command  you 
not  to  count  the  number  of  your  enemies.” 

“ Do  you  really  mean  to  amuse  yourself  by  laying  about  you  ? ” said 
the  other  lord  in  French.  “ I think,  baron,  it  takes  time.” 

“ It  will  not  last  long,  and  it  will  take  the  stiffness  out  of  our  limbs 
—will  you  be  of  the  party,  count  ? ” 
u Certainly,  if  you  desire  it,”  said  the  count,  with  a sort  of  majestic 
Indolence,  reaching  his  sword  with  one  hand,  and  a pair  of  pistols, 
with  jewelled  stocks,  with  the  other. 

44  Oh  1 you  act  nobly,  gentlemen,”  cried  Consuelo,  whose  impetuous 
spirit  made  her  forget  for  a moment  the  humble  part  she  was  playing, 
and  who  pressed  the  count’s  arm  with  both  her  hands. 

The  count,  surprised  at  such  an  act  of  familiarity  from  a little  lad 
of  her  apparent  rank,  looked  at  his  sleeve  with  a sort  of  contemptu- 
ous disgust,  shook  it,  and  then  raised  his  eyes  with  a sort  of  contemp- 
tuous indolence  to  Consuelo’s  face.  She  could  not  help  smiling,  as  she 
remembered  with  what  eagerness  the  Count  Zustiniani,  and  other 
most  illustrious  Venetians  had  asked  her  in  past  times  permission,  aa 
the  greatest  of  favors,  to  kiss  those  hands,  the  contact  of  which  was 
now  deemed  so  shocking.  Whether  at  that  moment  there  was  in  her 
manner  a calm  and  gentle  pride,  which  belied  the  outward  semblance 
of  poverty  which  she  wore ; or  that  the  ease  with  which  she  spoke 
German  with  the  accent  of  the  best  society,  led  the  count  to  believe 
that  she  might  be  a young  gentleman  in  disguise ; or  lastly,  that  the 
charm  of  her  sex  made  itself  instinctively  perceived— instead  of  a 
smile  of  contempt,  the  count  looked  at  her  with  a benevolent  exprea* 

l 

t 


CONSUELO, 


S49 


don.  He  was  still  young  and  very  handsome  and  had  he  not  been 
surpassed  by  the  baron  in  youth,  in  regularity  of  features,  and  in  the 
graces  of  his  person,  any  one  might  have  been  dazzled  by  his  person- 
al advantages.  They  were  the  two  handsomest  men  of  their  day— so 
the  world  said  of  them,  and  probably  of  many  others  also. 

Consuelo  seeing  that  the  eyes  of  the  young  baron  were  fixed  upon 
her  with  an  expression  of  uncertainty,  surprise,  and  doubt,  turned 
aside  his  attention  from  her  person  by  saying — 

44  Go,  messieurs,  or  rather  come — we  will  be  your  guides.  These 
bandits  have  a wretched  man  concealed  in  a compartment  of  their 
carriage,  as  if  he  were  in  a dungeon.  He  is  gagged,  tied  hand  and 
foot,  covered  with  blood,  and  apparently  dying.  Go  and  deliver  him. 
It  is  a deed  becoming  hearts  so  noble  as  yours.” 

44  By  Heaven ! the  boy  is  very  graceful  I ” cried  the  baron ; 44  and  I 
see,  my  dear  count,  that  we  have  lost  nothing  by  listening  to  him. 
Perhaps  it  is  some  brave  gentleman,  whom  we  shall  deliver  from  the 
hands  of  these  brigands.” 

44  Do  you  say  that  they  are  there  ? ” asked  the  count,  pointing 
towards  the  woods. 

44  Yes,”  said  Joseph;  44  but  they  are  dispersed,  and  if  your  lordship 
will  listen  to  me  you  will  divide  your  attack.  You*  will  ascend  the  hill 
as  quickly  as  you  can,  and  on  turning  the  summit  you  will  find  on  the 
outer-skirt  of  the  wood,  on  the  opposite  side,  the  carriage  in  which 
the  prisoner  is  confined;  while  I will  conduct  these  gentlemen  on 
horseback  directly  upon  them  across  the  country.  The  bandits  are 
but  three  in  number,  but  they  are  well  armed.  Yet  they  will  scarcely 
dare  to  resist,  when  they  find  themselves  attacked  on  two  sides  at 
once. f 

44  The  advice  is  good,”  said  the  baron.  44  Count,  remain  in  the  car- 
riage and  let  your  servant  go  with  you  — I will  get  upon  his  horse. 
One  of  these  boys  will  accompany  you  to  show  you  where  to  halt — I 
will  take  this  one  as  my  guide.  Let  us  make  haste ; for  if  our  brig- 
ands take  the  alarm,  as  it  is  most  like  they  will,  they  will  get  the  start 
of  U8.” 

44  The  carriage  cannot  escape  us,”  observed  Consuelo  quietly ; 44  for 
their  horse  Is  grazing.” 

The  baron  leaped  on  the  charger,  from  which  the  count’s  servant 
dismounted ; on  which  the  latter  got  up  behind  the  carriage. 

44  Get  in,”  said  the  count  to  Consuelo,  causing  her  to  get  in  the  first, 
without  being  able  to  explain  to  himself  that  unusual  deference — 
nevertheless,  be  sat  down  on  the  back  seat,  while  she  took  the  front. 
Leaning  over  the  carriage  door,  while  the  postilions  put  their  horses  to 
a dashing  gallop,  he  pursued  his  companion  with  his  eye,  as  he  crossed 
the  rivulet  on  horseback,  followed  jj  his  man,  who  had  taken  Joseph 
en  croppe , in  order  to  cross  the  water.  Consuelo  was  not  without 
some  apprehension  for  her  young  friend,  seeing  him  thus  exposed  to 
a first  fire ; but  she  saw  with  esteem  and  approbation  the  zeal  with 
which  he  had  claimed  that  post  of  peril.  She  saw  him  ascend  the 
hillock  followed  by  the  two  horsemen,  spurring  their  chargers  vigor- 
ously; and  the  next  moment  they  were  all  three  lost  to  sight  in  the 
woods.  Then  two  shots  were  heard,  and  a moment  after  a third. 
The  berlin  turned  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  Consuelo,  unable  to 
-earn  what  was  going  on,  raised  her  soul  to  God:  while  the  count, 
equally  anxious  for  his  noble  comrade  shouted  ana  swore  at  the  pos- 
tilions—“ Gallop!  gallop!  then,  harder  yet  — Canaille* ! Gallop  at 
four  speed,  X s*y!  * 


160 


«0  jr  8USL6w 


CHAPTER  LXXIL 

Signor  Pibtola,  to  whom  we  can  give  no  other  name  than  thju 
by  which  Consuelo  had  designated  him— for  we  have  found  nothing 
Interesting  enough  in  his  character  to  induce  us  to  make  any  en- 
quiries concerning  him — had  seen,  from  the  place  where  he  lay  hid, 
the  berlin  stop  at  the  cries  of  the  fugitives.  The  other  nameless  per- 
son, whom  with  Consuelo  we  shall  term  the  silent  man,  had  made  the 
same  observation  from  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  ran  to  tell  Mayer  what 
he  had  seen,  and  to  concert  with  him  the  plans  for  their  escape.  Be- 
fore the  baron  had  crossed  the  rivulet,  Pistola  had  gained  some  dis- 
tance, and  had  hidden  himself  in  the  woods.  He  allowed  the  horse- 
men to  pass  him,  and  then  fired  two  pistol  shots  at  them  deliberately 
from  behind.  One  ball  passed  through  the  baron’s  hat,  the  other 
slightly  wounded  the  servant’s  horse.  The  baron  turned  his  charger, 
caught  sight  of  the  man,  galloped  up  to  him,  and  stretched  him  on  the 
ground  by  a pistol  shot,  where  he  left  him,  rolling  among  the  thorns 
with  fearful  imprecations,  to  follow  Joseph,  who  reached  M.  Mayer’s 
carriage  nearly  at  the  same  moment  with  the  count’s  berlin.  The  lat- 
ter had  already  leaped  to  the  ground;  but  Mayer  and  the  silent  man 
had  already  taken  to  flight  with  the  horse,  without  taking  time  to  at- 
tempt the  concealment  of  the  carriage.  The  first  care  of  the  con- 
querors was  to  force  the  lock  of  the  compartment  in  which  the  pris- 
oner was  confined.  Consuel©  joyfully  assisted  in  cutting  the  cords 
and  removing  the  gag  of  the  unhappy  wretch,  who  no  sooner  felt  him- 
self delivered  than  he  cast  himself  at  the  feet  of  his  liberators 
thanking  God  and  them.  But  so  soon  as  he  saw  the  baron  he  fancier 
he  had  fallen  from  Charybdis  into  Scylla.  “ Ah,  Monsieur  Baron  de 
Trenck!  ” cried  he,  “ do  not  destroy  me— do  not  give  me  up.  Mercy 
mercy ! for  a poor  deserter,  who  is  the  father  of  a family.  I am  no 
more  a Prussian  than  you,  Monsieur  Baron.  Like  you,  I am  an  Aus- 
trian subject,  and  I implore  you  not  to  have  me  arrested.  Oh ! have 
mercy  upon  me ! n 

“ Have  mercy  upon  him,  Monsieur  le  Baron  Trenck,”  cried  Consu- 
elo without  having  any  idea  to  whom  she  was  speaking,  or  what  was 
the  subject  of  debate. 

“ I pardon  you,”  replied  the  baron ; “ but  on  the  condition  that  you 
bind  yourself  by  the  most  solemn  oaths,  never  to  confess  that  you 
owe  your  life  and  liberty  to  me.”  And  as  he  spoke  thus,  the  baron, 
drawing  a handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  wrapped  up  his  face  care- 
fully*  only  suffering  one  eye  to  be  seen  beneath  it. 

“ Are  you  wounded?  ” asked  the  count. 

M No,”  replied  he,  slouching  his  hat  over  his  face;  u but  if  we  meet 
these  pretended  brigands,  X have  no  desire  to  be  recognised  by  them. 
I do  not  stand  too  well,  as  it  is,  on  the  papers  of  our  most  gracious 
sovereign,  and  this  is  all  that  would  be  necessary  to  ruin  me.” 

“ I understand  what  you  mean,”  answered  the  count;  “but  be 
under  no  apprehensions.  * I take  everything  upon  myself.” 

“ That  would  be  quite  enough  to  save  a deserter  from  the  cat-o’-nine 
tails  or  the  gallows,  but  not  to  preserve  me  from  disgrace.  But  it 
does  not  matter.  No  one  knows  what  will  happen  next.  A mau 
ought  to  oblige  his  fellow  at  all  hazards.  Come,  poor  devil ; can  yoq 
keep  your  feet  ? Not  too  well,  I see.  Are  you  wounded  ? ” 


CON8UELO, 


m 


* la  0 trend  placet— but  I do  not  feel  it  now.” 

* In  a word,  can  you  manage  to  crawl  away  ? " 

* Oh  1 yes,  monsieur  aid-de-camp.” 

44  Do  not  call  me  so,  fellow.  Be  silent,  and  begons . and  let  us,  my 
dear  count,  do  the  same.  I shall  not  be  easy  till  I am  out  of  this 
wood.  I have  knocked  over  one  of  his  recruiters— if  the  king  should 
Jeam  It,  I should  be  in  a nice  place,  should  I not?  Yet,  after  all,  I 
laugh  at  it,”  he  added,  shrugging  up  his  shoulders. 

44  Alas  I”  said  Consuelo,  while  Joseph  passed  his  gourd  of  wine  to 
the  deserter— 44  if  he  is  abandoned  here,  he  will  be  retaken  instantly 
His  feet  are  still  swelled  in  consequence  of  his  ligatures,  and  he  can 
hardly  use  his  hands.  See  how  pale  and  exhausted  he  is.” 

“ We  will  not  abandon  him,”  said  the  count,  who  could  not  keep 
his  eyes  off  Consuelo. — “ Franz,”  he  added,  speaking  to  his  servant, 
44  dismount  from  your  horse ; and  do  you,”  turning  to  the  deserter — 
“ get  upon  his  back.  I give  him  to  you,  and  this  also,”— throwing 
him  his  purse.  44  Are  you  strong  enough  to  make  good  your  way  to 
Austria?” 

44  Oh ! yes,  monseigneur.” 

44 Do  you  intend  to  go  to  Vienna?  ” 

44  Yes,  Monseigneur.” 

44  Do  you  wish  to  take  service  again  ? ” 

44  Yes,  monseigneur,  if  it  be  not  under  his  Msjesty  of  Prussia.” 

44  Go  then  to  her  Majesty,  the  Queen  Empress;  she  receives  every 
one  once  a week.  Tell  her  that  the  Count  Hoditz  makes  her  a pres- 
ent of  a fine  grenadier,  perfectly  disciplined  in  the  Prussian  style.” 

44 1 go,  monseigneur.” 

44  And  take  care  you  be  not  so  unlucky  as  to  mention,  monsieur,  the 
baron’s  name,  or  I will  have  you  taken  by  my  people,  and  sent  back 
Into  Prussia.” 

44 1 would  rather  die  at  once.  Ohl  if  those  wretches  had  left  me 
the  use  of  my  hands,  I would  have  killed  myself  when  I was  re- 
taken.” 

44  Be  off” 

44  Yes,  monseigneur.” 

He  finished  the  contents  of  the  gourd,  returned  it  to  Joseph,  with- 
out knowing  who  it  was  that  had  rendered  him  so  important  a ser- 
vice, prostrated  himself  before  the  count  and  the  baron,  and  at  a ges- 
ture of  impatience  made  by  the  latter,  signed  the  cross,  kissed  the 
earth,  and  mounted  his  horse  by  the  aid  of  the  servants,  for  he  was 
still  unable  to  move  his  feet;  but  no  sooner  was  he  in  the  saddle,  than 
recovering  his  faculties,  he  set  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  went  off  at  a 
hard  gallop  on  the  southern  road. 

44  This,  at  all  events,  will  complete  my  ruin,  should  it  ever  be  discov- 
©d  that  I allowed  you  to  do  this.  It  is  all  one,”  he  added.  44  The 
idea  of  making  a present  to  Maria  Theresa  of  one  of  Frederick’s 

frenadiers,  is  delightful.  The  same  madcap  who  sent  bullets  to  the 
tulans  of  the  Empress,  will  send  them  next  to  the  King  of  Prussia’s 
body-guard.  Faithful  subjects,  and  well -chosen  soldiers  on  my 
honor!” 

44  The  sovereigns  will  be  none  the  worse  served.  But  now,  then, 
what  are  we  to  do  with  thnse  children  ? ” 

44  We  can  say,  with  the  grenadier,”  replied  Consuelo,  44  if  you 
abandon  us  we  are  lost.” 

44 1 4a  not  think,”  replied  the  count,  wto  spoke  with  a sort  of 


affectation  of  chivalry,  u that  we  have  given  you  any  reason,  thus  fltr, 
to  doubt  our  sentiments  of  humanity.  We  are  about  to  carry  you  so 
far,  that  you  will  need  no  farther  protection.  My  servant,  whom  I 
have  dismounted,  will  ride  on  the  rumble  of  the  carriage,”  said  he, 
addressing  the  baron,  and  immediately  added — “ do  not  you  prefer  the 
society  of  these  children  to  that  of  the  footman,  whom  we  shall  be 
obliged  to  admit  into  the  carriage,  and  whose  presence  will  greatly 
constrain  us  ? ” 

u Unquestionably,”  replied  the  baron.  “ Artists,  however  poor 
they  may  be,  are  never  out  of  place  in  any  society.  Who  knows,  if 
he  who  has  just  picked  up  his  violin  among  those  bushes,  and  who  is 
bringing  it  back  with  such  an  air  of  triumph,  may  not  be  a Tartini  in 
disguise.  u Now,  troubadour,”  said  he  to  Joseph,  who  had  just  re- 
possessed himself  of  his  knapsack,  his  instrument,  and  his  manu- 
scripts on  the  field  of  battle,  “ come  with  us,  and,  at  your  first  night’s 
lodging,  you  shall  sing  us  this  glorious  combat,  in  which  we  have  en- 
countered no  one  to  whom  to  speak.” 

“ You  may  quiz  me  as  much  as  you  please,”  said  the  count,  when 
they  were  installed  in  the  back  of  the  carriage— the  young  people  occu- 
pying the  front  seat — while  the  berlin  was  rolling  as  fast  as  it  could,  on 
the  road  to  Austria ; “ you  who  have  robbed  the  gallows  of  its  game, 
by  your  pistol  shot.” 

“ I am  very  much  afraid  that  I did  not  kill  him  dead,  and  that  I 
shall  meet  him  some  day  or  other  at  the  door  of  Frederick’s  cabinet 
Then  I shall  have  much  pleasure  in  making  my  exploit  over  to  you.” 

“ I,  who  have  not  so  much  as  seen  the  enemy,  envy  you  your  plot 
sincerely,”  said  the  count.  “ I had  taken  quite  a fancy  for  the  ad- 
venture, and  I should  have  had  much  pleasure  in  punishing  the 
scoundrels  as  they  deserve.  To  come  and  seize  deserters,  and  levy  re- 
cruits in  the  territories  of  Bavaria,  which  is  now  the  faithful  ally  of 
Maria  Theresa,  is  a piece  of  insolence  which  has  hitherto  wanted 
even  a name,” 

* It  would  be  a ready-made  cause  of  war,  if  the  kings  were  not  tired 
of  fighting,  and  if  the  times  were  not  peaceful  just  now.  You  will 
therefore  oblige  me  greatly,  by  giving  no  currency  to  this  adventure, 
not  only  on  account  of  my  sovereign,  who  would  owe  me  very  little 
favor  for  the  part  I have  borne  in  it,  but  also  on  account  of  the  mis- 
sion with  which  I am  charged  to  your  empress.  I should  find  her,  I 
fancy,  very  ill-disposed  to  receive  me,  if  I should  approach  her,  when 
she  had  just  heard  of  such  an  act  of  impertinence  on  the  part  of  my 
government.” 

“ Fear  nothing  from  me,”  said  the  count.  You  know  I am  not  a 
very  zealous  subject,  because  I am  not  an  ambitious  courtier.” 

“ And  What  ambition  would  you  have  any  longer?  Love  and  for- 
tune have  both  crowned  your  every  wish ; while  I — ah  I how  different 
are  our  fortunes  hitherto,  notwithstanding  the  analogy  which  they 
present  at  the  first  aspect.” 

As  he  spoke  the  baron  drew  from  his  breast  a miniature,  set  with  { 
diamonds,  and  began  contemplating  it  with  eyes  of  tenderness,  utter- 
ing deep  sighs,  which  had  very  nearly  set  Consuelo  laughing ; for  she 
did  not  think  so  indiscreet  a passion  in  very  good  taste,  and  could  not 
help  Internally  making  merry  with  that  ultra-aristocratical  manner. 
/My  dear  baron,”  said  the  count,  lowering  his  voice,  while  Consu- 
elo did  her  utmost  to  av  fid  showing  that  she  understood  him,  “ J 
feeeeoeh  yon  to  grant  the  confidence  with  which  you  have  honored 


gMt  no  othei  person ; and  more  especially,  to  show  that  portrait  to 
no  other.  Pat  ft  back  into  its  case,  and  remember  that  this  boy  un- 
derstands French  as  well  as  you  or  I.” 

“ By  the  way,”  said  the  baron,  shutting  up  the  miniature  which 
Consuelo  had  carefully  avoided  seeing,  “ what  the  devil  could  our 
friends  the  recruiters  have  wanted  to  do  with  these  two  little  boys  ? 
Tell  us,  what  did  they  promise,  to  induce  you  to  go  with  them  ? ” 

“In  truth,”  said  the  count,  “ I never  thought  of  that;  but  it  is 
strange  enough,  that  they  who  never  desire  to  enlist  others  than  men 
in  the  prime  and  strength  of  manhood,  and  that  too  of  gigantic  stat- 
ure, should  have  desired  to  enrol  two  little  boys.” 

Thereupon  Joseph  related  how  Mayer,  as  he  called  himself,  bad 
pretended  to  be  a professor  of  music,  and  had  constantly  talked  to 
them  of  Dresden,  and  an  engagement  in  the  Elector’s  chapel. 

“ Oh ! now  I see ; and  I would  lay  a wager  that  I know  this  Mayer,” 
said  the  baron.  “ H$  must  be  a fellow  of  the  name  of  N*  *,  formerly 
a band-master,  and  now  a recruiter  of  music  for  the  Prussian  regi- 
ments. Our  countrymen  have  such  hard  heads  that  there  is  no  get- 
ting them  to  play  in  time  or  tune ; and  if  his  Majesty,  who  has  a nicer 
ear  than  the  late  king  his  father,  did  not  draw  his  clarions,  fifes  and 
trumpets  from  Boherda  or  Hungary,  he  would  scarce  get  a band  at  all. 
The  good  professor  of  brass-flourishes  thought  to  make  a nice  present 
to  his  master,  bringing  him  back  not  only  a deserter  but  two  intelli- 

fent-looking  little  musicians;  and  the  false  pretext  of  offering  them 
>resden  and  the  luxuries  of  a court  was  not  a bad  falsehood  to  begin 
with.  But  had  you  once  got  to  Dresden,  my  lads,  willing  or  unwil- 
ling, you  would  have  been  incorporated  in  the  hand  of  some  infantry 
regiment  or  other,  only  until  the  end  of  your  days.” 

“I  know  not  whs.,  sort  of  fate  should  have  awaited  us,”  replied 
Consuelo.  “ I have  heard  tell  of  the  abominations  of  that  military 
rule ; of  the  ill-faith  and  cruelty  with  which  recruits  are  raised.  And 
I see,  by  the  manner  in  which  those  villains  treated  that  unhappy 
grenadier,  that  wha/  I heard  was  in  no  sort  exaggerated.  Oh  1 this 
Frederick  the  Great  l” 

“ Learn  young  mar replied  the  baron,  with  an  ironical  emphasis, 
“ that  his  majesty  U ignorant  of  the  means,  and  is  acquainted  only 
with  the  results.” 

By  which  he  profits,  caring  nothing  for  aught  else,”  cried  Con- 
suelo, fired  by  an  irrepressible  indignation.  “ Oh ! I know  it,  Mon- 
sieur Baron.  I know  that  kings  are  innocent  of  all  the  crimes  which 
are  committed  for  their  pleasure.” 

“ The  lad  has  wit,”  s&id  the  count,  laughing;  “but  have  a care,  my 
pretty  little  drummer,  and  remember  that  you  are  speaking  in  the 
presence  of  a superior  officer  of  the  regiment  to  which  perhaps  you 
would  have  belonged.” 

“ Knowing  how  to  be  silent  myself,  Monsieur  Count,  I never  enter- 
tain a doubt  of  the  discretion  of  others.” 

“ Do  you  hear  him,  baron  ? He  promises  you  that  silence,  which 
you  never  thought  of  asking  of  him.  Come,  he  is  a charming  lad.” 

“ And  I trust  myself  to  him  with  all  my  heart,”  said  the  baron, 
“ Count,  yom  ought  to  enroll  him  yourself,  and  offer  him  as  a page  to 
her  highness.” 

“ It  is  done,  if  he  consents,”  said  the  count  laughing.  “ Will  you 
accept  this  engagement,  which  is  very  mrch  lighter  than  that  in  the 
Prussian  service?  Ah!  my  lad,  there  is  no  question  of  blowing  inti 


coKstnstd, 


m 


brass,  beatfng  to  arms  before  daybreak,  being  caned,  or  eating  bread 
made  of  pounded  bricks,  but  of  carrying  the  train  and  fan  of  an  ad- 
mirably beautiful  and  gracious  lady,  of  dwelling  in  a fairy  palace,  of 
being  president  over  sports  and  frolics,  and  playing  your  part  in  con- 
certs worth  fifty  times  those  of  Frederick  the  Great.  Are  you  tempt- 
ed? At  all  events,  do  not  take  me  for  a second  M.  Mayer.” 

u And  who  is  this  gracious  and  magnificent  highness,  whom  I shall 
be  called  upon  to  serve  ? ” asked  Consuelo  with  a smile.” 

“ It  is  the  dowager  Margravine  of  Bareith,  Princess  of  Culmbach, 
my  wife,”  replied  Count  Hoditz.  “ She  is  now  Chatelaine  of  Ros- 
wald,  in  Moravia.” 

Consuelo  had  heard  the  Canoness  Wenceslawa  de  Rudolstadt 
relate  the  genealogies,  alliances,  and  anecdotical  history  of  all  the 
principalities  and  aristocracies,  both  great  and  small,  of  Germany  and 
the  circumjacent  countries,  above  a hundred  times;  and  among  others 
that  of  the  Count  Hoditz  Roswald — a very  rich  Moravian  lord,  ex- 
iled and  abandoned  by  a father  irritated  at  his  conduct — an  adven- 
turer widely  known  throughout  Europe ; and  to  conclude,  the  high 
chamberlain,  lover,  and  ultimately  husband  of  the  Margravine,  dow- 
ager of  Bareith,  whom  he  had  secretly  married,  carried  off  to  Vienna, 
and  thence  into  Moravia,  where  having  recently  inherited  from  his 
father,  he  had  been  recently  put  in  possession  of  a splendid  fortune. 
The  canoness  had  often  dwelt  on  the  details  of  this  story,  which  she 
regarded  as  especially  scandalous,  because  the  Margravine  was  a sov- 
ereign princess,  and  the  count  no  more  than  a private  gentleman ; and 
to  declaim  against  all  mesalliances  and  love  marriages,  was  a very 
favorite  subject  with  her.  On  her  side,  Consuelo,  who  was  anxious 
to  understand  and  to  be  well  informed  concerning  the  prejudices  of 
the  noble  caste,  took  heed  of  all  their  legends,  and  forgot  none  of 
them.  The  very  first  time  the  name  of  the  Count  Hoditz  had  been 
mentioned  before  her,  she  had  been  struck  by  a vague  reminiscence, 
and  now  she  had  clearly  before  her  mind’s  eye,  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  life,  and  romantic  marriage  of  the  celebrated  adventurer;  of  the 
Baron  Trenck,  who  was  only  then  on  the  verge  of  his  memorable 
misfortunes,  and  who  could  not  even  presage  the  horrors  that  were 
to  befall  him,  she  had  never  even  heard  tell.  She  listened,  therefore 
to  the  count,  as  he  descanted  with  vanity  enough  on  the  circumstan- 
ces of  his  newly  acquired  wealth.  Laughed  at  and  despised  for  a 
long  time  in  the  small,  but  haughty  courts  of  Germany,  Hoditz  had 
blushed  for  years  at  being  considered  a poor  devil  of  an  adventurer, 
enriched  by  his  wife.  The  inheritor  of  enormous  wealth,  he  now 
looked  upon  himself  as  completely  restored,  while  he  displayed  the 
pomp  and  luxury  of  a monarch  on  the  estate  of  his  Moravian  county; 
and  complacently  produced  his  new  titles  for  the  respectful  or  curious 
consideration  of  the  second-rate  crowned  heads,  who  were  immeas- 
urably poorer  than  himself.  Full  of  kind  considerations  and  delicate 
attentions  to  a wife,  who  was  much  older  than  himself ; whether  that 
princess  had  the  good  principles  and  good  taste  of  the  king,  which 
ied  her  to  wink  at  the  occasional  infidelity  of  her  illustrious  husband, 
or  that  she  thought  that,  owing  his  nobility  to  her,  he  could  never 
close  his  eyes  upon  the  decline  of  her  beauty,  she  took  no  heed  of  his 
fancies. 

After  travelling  a few  leagues,  they  found  a relay  of  horses  ready 
fcr  the  illustrious  travellers;  Consuelo  and  Joseph  now  proposed  to 
get  down  and  take  their  leave,  but  their  patrons  objected,  saying  that 


) OON80ELO.  164 

they  were  still  liable  to  the  attempts  of  the  recruiter*,  with  whom  the 
country  is  overrun. 

“You  know  nothing,”  said  Trenck  to  them — and  he  by  no  means 
exaggerated — “ of  this  able  and  formidable  class.  On  whatever  spot 
of  civilized  Europe  you  set  foot,  if  you  are  poor  and  defenceless,  if 
you  possess  either  strength  or  talent,  you  are  exposed  to  the  deceit  or 
the  violence  of  these  men.  They  know  al  the  frontier  passes—- all 
the  mountain  roads,  all  the  byways,  all  the  suspicious  lodgings,  all 
the  villains  whose  aid  they  can  depend  upon  in  cases  of  necessity, 
even  to  the  strong  hand.  They  speak  all  languages,  all  provincial 
dialects,  for  they  have  visited  all  nations,  and  dwell  after  their  fashions 
in  all  trades.  They  are  excellent  riders,  runners,  swimmers;  they 
can  throw  themselves  over  precipices  like  actual  banditti.  They  are, 
as  a rule,  all  brave,  all  seasoned  to  fatigue,  clever  and  impudent  liars, 
vindictive,  pliable,  and  cruel.  They  are  the  very  refuse  of  the  human 
race,  by  whom  the  military  organization  of  the  late  king  of  Prussia, 
William  the  First,  profited  as  the  most  useful  purveyers  to  its  power* 
and  the  most  important  auxiliaries  of  its  discipline.  They  would 
catch  him  a deserter  in  the  extremity  of  Siberia,  or  would  seek  Him 
in  the  hottest  of  the  enemy’s  fire,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  bringing 
him  back  to  Prussia,  and  having  him  hanged  in  terrorem . They  tore 
a priest  from  the  altar,  because  he  was  five  feet  ten  in  height ; they 
stole  a physician  from  the  princess  electoral ; they  drove  the  old  Mar- 
grave of  Bareith  half  frantic  ten  times  over,  by  carrying  off  from  him 
his  whole  army,  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  strong,  without  his  daring 
to  demand  explanations;  they  made  a French  gentleman,  who  was 
going  to  see  his  wife  and  children  in  the  environs  of  Strasburgh,  a 
soldier  to  the  day  of  his  death ; they  have  taken  Kussians  from  the 
Czarina  Elizabeth,  Hulons  from  the  Mareschal  of  Saxony,  Pandours 
from  Maria  Theresa,  magnates  of  Hungary,  Polish  lords,  Italian 
singers,  women  of  all  nations,  compulsory  wives,  like  the  Sabines  of 
old,  for  the  common  soldiers.  Everything  is  game  that  falls  into  their 
net.  Besides  their  appointments,  and  the  expenses  of  their  journeys, 
which  are  paid  most  liberally,  they  receive  a premium  per  capita  fur* 
nished;  nay,  more,  by  the  inch  and  barleycorn  of  height  of  each 
recruit ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Consuelo,  “ they  furnish  human  flesh,  at  so  much  the 
ounce  weight.  Ah ! your  great  king  is  but  an  ogre ! But  rest  easy, 
Monsieur  Baron.  Be  you  assured  that  you  did  a good  action,  when 
you  restored  our  poor  deserter  to  liberty.  For  me,  I had  rather  un- 
dergo all  tKfe  penalties  that  awaited  him,  than  say  one  word  that  should 
injure  you.” 

•Trenck,  whose  fiery  spirit  was  but  slenderly  tempered  by  pru- 
dence, and  whose  temper  was  already  soured  by  the  incomprehensi- 
ble cruelties  and  injustice  of  Frederick  toward  him,  felt  a bitter  pleas- 
ure in  revealing  to  Count  Hoditz  the  crimes  of  that  government, 
whose  accomplice  and  servant  he  had  been  in  days  of  prosperity, 
when  his  conscience  was  less  easily  pricked  than  at  present  Now 
persecuted  in  secret,  though  ostensibly  owing  to  the  confidence  of  the 
king  his  honorable  diplomatic  mission  to  the  court  of  Maria  Theresa, 
he  began  to  detest  his  master,  and  to  suffer  his  opinions  to  appear  too 
plainly.  He  related  to  the  count  the  sufferings,  the  slavery,  and  the 
despair  of  the  Prussian  army,  which,  precious  in  war,  was  so  danger- 
ous in  time  of  peace,  that  it  had  become  necessary,  in  order  to 
keep  it  under  any  sort  have  recourse  i?  a system  ef 


m 


Nivno, 


unaiiunpled  barbarity.  fie  related  the  epidemic  of  suicide  which 
had  spread  through  the  army,  and  the  crimes  committed  by  soldiers 
Otherwise  honest  and  religious  men,  for  the  mere  purpose  of  getting 
themselves  condemned  to  death,  and  of  so  escaping  a life  too  horrible 
for  endurance.  Would  you  believe  that  the  ranks  which  are  under 
tw rveillance,  are  those  most  anxiously  desired  ? For  you  must  know 
lhat  these  ranks,  under  surveillance,  are  composed  of  foreign  recruits, 
of  men  carried  off  from  th«4r  own  homes,  or  of  young  Prussians,  who, 
during  the  earliei  part  of  a career,  which  is  only  to  end  with  life,  Are 
a prey  for  the  most -part  to  absolute  despair.  These  are  divided  into 
Tanks  and  whether  in  peace  or  in  war,  are  made  to  march  before  a line 
*of  mon  more  resigned  to  their  fate  and  more  determined,  who  have 
orders  to  fire  upon  them  at  the  slightest  indication  of  their  flying,  or 
attempting  to  desert.  If  the  rank  charged  with  this  execution  neg- 
lect their  duty,  the  rear  rank,  which  is  composed  of  men  yet  more 
insensible  and  cruel — for  there  are  such  among  the  old  hardened  sol- 
G hers  and  the  volunteers,  most  of  whom  are  scoundrels— has  orders 
fire  on  both  indiscriminately.  Thus  every  rank  in  the  army  has, 
on  the  day  of  battle,  an  enemy  in  front  and  an  enemy  in  the  rear, 
nowl  >ere  e(luals>  comrades,  or  brothers  in  arms,  but  everywhere  vio- 
lence dismay  and  death  l “ It  is  thus,”  said  the  great  Frederick, 

« 't  invincible  soldiery  is  formed.”  Well ! a place  in  these  front 
ranks  is"  <.  and  sought  out  by  the  young  Prussian  soldier ; and  so 

soon  as  1 ^ *s  stati°ned  in  one  of  these,  without  entertaining  the 
slightest  h °**  escape,  he  disbands  and  throws  away  his  arms  ta 
draw  upon  himself  the  fire  h*8  comrades.  This  movement  of 
despair  has  s we&  many,  who,  risking  all  to  gain  all,  succeed  in  escap- 
ing and  often  Pass  oyer  to  the  enemy.  The  king  is  not  in  the  slight- 
est doubt  as  to  the  detestation  in  which  the  army  hold  himself  and  his 
voke  of  iron  * i you  are,  perhaps,  acquainted  with  the  anecdote 
relating  to  himk  ^ and  to  h*8  nephew,  the  Duke  of  Brunswick,  who 
was  present  at  o,  °f  h*8  great  reviews,  and  appeared  never  to  wax 
wearv  of  admiring  * ithe  admirable  combination,  and  superb  manoeu- 
vroa  if  h\a  trnnm  ^'The  discipline  and  the  working  of  such  a mass 
of ^im-lookingmen  uppers  to  surprise  you,”  said  Frederick.  “But 
there  is ^ something  th  U surprises  me  much  more.”  “ What  is  that  ? ” 
«ked  thcT^oung1  duke  v “ /t  is  that  you  and  I should  be  in  safety  in 
the  midst  of  them,”  answer!*^  thektogi 
“ Baron,  my  dear  baron,”  j\  spiled  the  Count  Hoditz,  this  is  the 
- reverse  of  the  medat  Nothing  i8  done  miraculously  among  men. 
How  should  Frederick  be  the  greatest  captain  of  his  day,  if  he  were 
as  gentle  as  a dove  ? Hold  I-sa*  ’ no  more ; or  you  will  compel  me, 
whS  am  his  natural  enemy,  to  tah  e his  part  against  you,  who  are  bis 
aid-de-camp  and  his  favorite.”  ‘ . t * . . , , 

“ According  to  the  mode  in  which  be  treats  his  favorites,  when  he 
is  in  a whimsical  humor,”  replied  Ti  enck,  ‘ it  is  easy  to  judge  how 
he  treats  his  slaves.  But,  as  you  say,  let  iis  speak  of  him  no  more; 
for  when  I do  think,  a sort  of  devilish  desire  seizes  me  to  return  into 
the  woods,  and  strangle  with  my  own  hiands  his  zealous  purveyors  of 
human  flesh,  whom  I spared  through  a .cowardly  prudential  policy. 

The  generous  indignation  of  the  baron  charmed  Consuelo;  she 
listened  eagerly  to  his  animated  pictures  of  Prussian  military  le: 
and  being  ignorant  that  some  personal  resentment  was  intermingled 
with  his  spirited  vehemence,  $he  looked  on  it  as  the  evidence  of  a 
truly  gre#  t soul.  And  in  truth,  there  w&$  tuuch  real  greatness  of  soul 


oohstblo.  867 

I*  Trench’s  idlings.  Proud  as  he  was  handsome,  that  youth  was 
ncvfii  meant  to  grovel;  and,  in  th.s  respect  there  was  a vast  differ- 
ence between  him  and  the  chance  companion  of  his  joumoy,  the 
rich  and  superb  Count  Hoditz.  The  latter  having  been  during  his 
whole  boyhood  the  terror  and  despair  of  his  preceptors,  had  been  at 
last  given  up  to  himself,  and  although  he  had  now  passed  the  age  of 
noisy  outbreaks,  he  preserved  in  his  manners  and  deportment  some* 
thing  boyish  which  stood  in  strange  contrast  to  his  herculean  stature* 
and  nis  fine  features,  something  faded  by  forty  years  of  toils  and  de- 
baucheries. The  superficial  knowledge  which  he  displayed  from  time 
to  time,  he  had  derived  only  from  romances,  fashionable  philosophy, 
and  constant  attendance  at  the  theatre.  He  prided  himself  on  being 
an  artist,  yet  wanted  both  the  discernment  and  depth  of  an  artist,  iu 
every  respect.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  his  air  of  nobility,  his  ex- 
quisite affability,  his  delicate  and  lively  ideas  soon  acted  on  young 
Haydn’s  imagination,  who  preferred  him  to  the  baron,  perhaps  not  a 
little  on  account  of  the  superior  degree  of  attention  paid  to  the  latter 
by  Consuelo. 

The  baron  on  the  contrary  had  studied  in  earnest,  and  if  the  glare 
of  courts  and  the  heat  of  youth  had  at  times  dazzled  him  as  to  the 
true  weight  and  worth  of  human  dignities,  he  had  ever  preserved 
within  his  inmost  soul  that  independence  of  sentiment  and  equity  of 
character  which  serious  reading  and  noble  instincts,  developed  by 
education,  are  wont  to  bestow.  His  proud  character  had  failed  to 
resist  the  petrifiying  influences  of  the  caresses  and  flatteries  of  power 
but  it  had  remained  unsubdued  by  the  attempts  to  bend,  so  that  at  the 
least  touch  of  injustice,  it  had  arisen  against  the  blow  only  the  more 
fierce  and  fiery.  The  handsome  page  of  Frederick  had  only  touched 
his  lip  with  the  poisoned  chalice;  but  love,  a true,  a rash,  and  impas- 
ftioned  love,  had  reanimated  his  audacity  and  his  perseverance. 
Touched  to  the  most  feeling  nerve  of  his  heart,  he  had  raised  his 
head,  and  face  to  face,  defied  the  tyrant  who  had  desired  to  bring  him 
to  his  knees. 

At  the  date  of  our  tale,  he  seemed  not  to  have  passed  his  twentieth 
year  at  the  farthest.  A-  forest  of  dark  hair  which  he  had  refused  to 
sacrifice  to  the  childish  discipline  of  Frederick,  overshadowed  his  broad 
forehead.  His  figure  was  superb,  his  eyes  sparkling,  his  moustache 
as  black  as  ebony ; his  hand  as  white  as  alabaster,  though  strong  a a 
that  of  a Greek  athlete,  his  voice  as  fresh  and  manly  as  his  features 
his  ideas  and  his  hopes  of  love.  Consuelo  pondered  over  that  myste- 
rious love,  which  was  forever  on  his  lips;  and  which,  the  more  she 
observed  him,  she  thought  the  less  ridiculous,  on  account  of  the 
blending  of  natural  vehemence,  and  of  distrust  but  too  well  founded 
which  set  a perpetual  warfare  between  himself  and  his  fortune*.  She 
even  felt  an  inexpressible  curiosity  to  know  the  mistress  of  that  young 
man’s  secret  thoughts,  and  surprised  herself  sending  up  sincere 
prayers  for  the  success  and  triumph  of  the  lovers.  She  did  not  find 
the  day  so  long  as  she  had  expected  to  in  a tiresome  situation,  vis-ctr 
r is  to  two  persons  of  a rank  so  different  from  her  own.  She  had  ac- 
quired in  Venice  the  comprehension,  and  at  Riesenberg,  the  practice, 
of  politeness,  of  the  gentle  manners,  and  well-toned  conversation, 
which  are  the  bright  side  of  what  was  called  in  those  days,  exclusively 
good  company. 

While  holding  herself  on  her  reserve,  and  only  speaking  when 
ejpok&i  to  she  tbit  much  at  her  ease,  and  made  her  reflections  inter. 


OOKSUEIOi 


S58 

aally  on  all  that  passed  before  hsr  eyes.  Neither  the  baron  nor  the 
count  appeared  to  suspect  her  disguise.  The  first,  paid  in  fact  little 
or  no  attention,  either  to  her  or  to  Joseph.  If  he  addressed  a few 
words  to  them,  he  continued  the  conversation,  turning  round  to  the 
count;  and  indeed,  while  talking  with  enthusiasm,  he  very  often 
seemed  to  forget  him  also,  and  to  converse  with  his  own  thoughts, 
like  a soul  which  feeds  itself  on  its  own  fires.  As  to  the  count,  he 
was  by  turns  as  grave  as  a crowned  head,  and  as  frivolous  as  a French 
marchioness.  He  drew  his  tablets  from  his  pocket  and  took  notes 
with  all  the  gravity  of  a diplomatist;  and  again  he  hummed  them 
over  in  tune,  so  that  Consuelo  perceived  them  to  be  little  poems  in 
gallant  and  high-flown  French.  Then  he  would  read  them  over  to 
the  baron,  who  lauded  them  to  the  skies  without  listening  to  them ; 
and  again  he  would  ask  Consuelo  good-naturedly,  what  was  her 
opinion  of  them.  “ How  do  you  like  them,  my  little  friend?  You 
understand  French,  don’t  you?  ” 

Consuelo,  who  was  annoyed  by  this  false  condescension,  which 
seemed  anxious  to  dazzle  her,  could  not  resist  her  desire  to  point  out 
two  or  three  errors  in  one  of  his  quatrains  on  beauty.  Her  mother 
had  taught  her  to  pronounce  and  enunciate  dearly  the  languages 
which  she  sang  herself  with  ease,  and  even  with  elegance.  Consuelo, 
studious,  and  seeking  for  harmony  in  everything,  according  to  the 
dictates  of  her  own  highly  musical  organization,  had  found  in  books 
the  key  and  rule  to  all  these  divers  languages.  She  had  above  all  ex- 
amined into  their  prosody,  by  exercising  herself  in  the  translation  of 
their  lyric  poetry,  and  adjusting  foreign  words  to  national  airs,  so  as 
to  make  herself  fully  acquainted  with  rythm  and  accent.  She  had 
thus  arrived  at  a full  understanding  of  the  rules  of  versification  in 
several  languages,  and  it  was  no  difficult  task.to  her  to  point  out  the 
errors  of  the  Moravian  Poet.  Astonished  at  her  knowledge,  yet  una 
ble  to  bring  himself  to  mistrust  his  own,  Hoditz  consulted  the  baron 
concerning  the  opinions  of  the  little  musician,  to  which  he  was  per- 
fectly capable  of  giving  the  preference.  From  that  moment  the  count 
occupied  himself  entirely  with  Consuelo,  though  he  still  did  not 
appear  to  suspect  her  real  age  or  sex.  He  only  asked,  where  he  had 
been  educated,  to  understand  so  well  the  rules  of  Parnassus. 

“At  the  free  school  of  the  Venetian  chapters.” 

“ It  seems  to  me  that  they  carry  their  schoolings  farther  there  than 
they  do  in  Germany.  And  where  was  your  comrade  instructed? ” 

“ In  the  cathedral  at  Vienna,”  said  Joseph. 

“My  children,”  said  the  count,  “I  think  that  you  both  possess 
intelligence  and  aptitude  in  a high  degree.  At  our  first  halting  stage, 
I will  examine  you  in  music,  and  if  you  come  up  to  the  promise  giv- 
en by  your  countenances  and  maimers,  I engage  you  for  my  orches- 
tra, or  my  theatre  of  Roswald.  I will  actually  present  you  to  the 
princess,  my  wife.  Aha ! what  say  you  to  that  ? it  will  be  a veritable 
fortune  ready  made  for  two  lads  like  you.” 

Consuelo  was  taken  with  a great  desire  to  laugh  at  the  idea  of  the 
count  undertaking  to  examine  herself  and  Haydn  in  music.  And  it 
was  only  by  dint  of  a great  effort  that  she  could  stifle  her  entertain- 
ment by  affecting  to  bow  most  respectfully.  Joseph  perceiving  the 
advantageous  consequences  to  himself  of  his  second  proposal,  thanked 
him  and  did  not  refuse.'  The  count  resumed  his  tablets  and  read  to 
Consuelo  half  of  a singularly  hideous  Italian  operetta,  full  of  barbar- 
isms, which  he  pioposed  to  s*.t  to  music  himself,  and  to  have  w* 


m 


CO  X>  OSLO. 

ftmed  eu  his  wife's  birthday  by  his  own  actors,  In  his  own  the* 
Ire.  in  his  own  castle,  or  to  speak  more  correctly,  in  his  own  royal 
residence;  for  considering  himself  a prince,  by  right  of  marriage  with 
the  Margravine,  he  spoke  of  himself  in  no  other  capacity. 

Consuelo  touched  Joseph  from  time  to  time  with  her  elbow,  in  or* 
der  to  draw  his  attention  to  the  blunders  of  the  count,  and  utterly 
wearied  out  with  his  absurdity,  could  not  help  wondering  to  herself 
whether  that  famous  beauty,  the  hereditary  Margravine  of  Bareith, 
and  princess  dowager  of  Culmbaeh,  must  be  a very  silly  sort  of  per- 
son, despite  all  her  titles,  her  gallantries,  and  her  years,  to  suffer  her- 
self to  be  seduced  by  madrigals  so  poor  as  these. 

As  he  read  and  declaimed  aloud,  the  count  kept  swallowing  sugar 
plums  to  moisten  his  throat,  and  continually  offered  them  to  the 
young  travellers,  who  being  desperately  hungry,  as  having  eaten  noth- 
ing since  the  preceding  day,  took  those  suckshaws  which  were  more 
suitable  to  provoke  than  to  satiate  the  appetite,  for  want  of  anything 
better,  thinking  continually  that  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  determine 
' whether  the  count's  sweetmeats  or  his  rhymes  were  the  least  unpala- 
table viands. 

At  length,  when  the  day  was  closing,  the  forts  and  steeples  of  that 
town  of  Passau,  which  that  very  morning  Consuelo  scarcely  hoped 
ever  to  see,  began  to  be  apparent  on  the  horizon.  That  sight,  after  so 
many  trials  and  dangers  as  they  had  undergone,  was  almost  as  delight- 
ful to  her,  as  would  have  been  at  another  moment  that  of  Venice,  and 
/ as  they  crossed  the  Danube  she  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  giv- 
ing Joseph  f\  push  with  her  hand. 

“Is  he  your  brother?"  asked  the  count,  who  had  never  before 
thought  of  enquiring. 

“ Yes,  monseigneur,”  Consuelo  made  answer  at  once,  in  order  to  get 
rid  of  his  inquisitive  questions. 

“ You  are  not  at  all  like  each  other,  nevertheless,”  said  the  count 

“ It  is  not  so  uncommon  a thing  for  children  to  be  unlike  their  fa- 
thers,” replied  Joseph  merrily. 

“ Were  you  brought  up  together?  ” 

“ No,  monseigneur — in  a wandering  life  like  ours,  one  is  brought  up 
as  he  can,  and  when  he  can.” 

“ I know  not  why  I think  so,”  said  the  count  to  Consuelo,  lowering 
his  voice  as  he  spoke,  “ but  I cannot  but  believe  that  you  are  well  born. 
Everything  in  your  appearance  and  language  announces  something  of 
natural  distinction.” 

“ I know  not  how  I was  bom,”  she  answered  with  a light  laugh. 
“ But  I suppose  I was  born  a musician  from  father  to  son,  for  there  is 
nothing  on  earth  that  I love  but  music.” 

“ Wherefore  are  you  dressed  as  a Moravian  peasant  ? ” 

“ Because  my  travelling  clothes  being  worn  out,  I bought  the  first  I 
could  find  at  .a  fair.” 

“ Have  you  been  in  Moravia,  then  ?— Perhaps  you  have,  even  to 

Roswald  ? ” 

“ Near  it,  monseigneur — yes,  I have,”  said  Consuelo  mischievously 
— “ I perceived  from  afar  off,  and  without  daring  to  approach  them, 
your  superb  demesnes,  your  statues,  cascades,  gardens,  mountains — 
nay!  but  I know  not  what  marvels — in  truth,  a very  fairy  palace.” 

“ You  have  seen  all  that!  ” said  the  count,  astonished,  and  forget- 
ting that  Consuelo,  having  heard  him  describing  all  the  delights  of  hi« 
residence,  during  two  whole  hours,  could  have  no  difficulty  in  describ- 
ing it  on  his  authority  without  risk  of  disco  very.” 


CONSUELO. 


SM 

u That  must  assuredly  then  give  you  a desire  to  return  thither.* 

u I am  dying  with  a wish  to  do  so,  since  1 have  had  the  good  fort*,  vi 
to  become  known  to  you,”  said  Consuelo,  who  wanted  to  pay  hin*  »J 
by  a little  mockery  for  the  reading  of  his  opera  which  he  had  infficted 
©n  her. 

She  leaped  lightly  out  of  the  barque  in  which  they  crossed  oyer 
crying  out  with  an  exaggerated  German  accent — “ O,  Passau,  I salute 
thee.’ 

The  berlin  carried  them  to  the  house  of  a rich  lord,  a friend  to  the 
count,  who  was  absent  for  the  moment,  but  whose  house  was  ready 
for  their  occupation.  They  were  expected,  and  the  servants  were  al- 
ready busy  preparing  supper,  which  was  almost  immediately  set  on 
the  table.  The  count,  who  took  great  pleasure  in  the  society  of  his 
little  musician,  as  he  called  Consuelo,  would  have  desired  to  bring  her 
to  table,  but  the  fear  of  annoying  the  baron  prevented  him ; Consuelo 
and  Joseph  were,  however,  well  contented  to  eat  in  the  offices,  and 
made  no  difficulty  about  sitting  down  with  the  servants-  Joseph  in- 
deed had  never  been  treated  with  more  respect  by  the  great  nobles  who 
had  employed  him  at  their  feasts ; and  although  the  sense  of  his  art 
had  elevated  his  heart  enough  to  enable  him  to  perceive  the  outrage 
that  was  done  him,  he  never  forgot,  and  that  without  feeling  any 
shame  of  it,  that  his  mother  had  been  the  cook  of  the  Count  Harrach, 
the  lord  of  his  village.  Even  at  a later  day,  when  his  genius  was  fully 
expanded,  Haydn  was  but  a little  better  appreciated  by  his  protectors, 
as  a man,  although  as  an  artist  he  was  admired  all  over  Europe.  He 
was  eight-and-twenty  years  in  the  service  of  the  Prince  Esterhazy, 
and  when  we  say  in  the  service,  we  do  not  mean  in  the  quality  of  mu- 
sician only.  Paer  saw  him  with  a napkin  under  his  arm  and  a sword 
by  his  side,  waiting  behind  his  master’s  chair,  and  performing  all  the 
duties  of  a maitre  d’hotel,  that  is  to  say  of  first  valet,  according  to  the 
custom  of  the  age  and  the  country. 

Consuelo  on  the  contrary,  had  never  eaten  with  servants  since  her 
journeys  as  a child  with  her  mother  the  Zingara.  She  amused  her- 
self much  with  the  fine  airs  which  these  village  lackeys  assumed,  who 
held  themselves  degraded  by  the  company  of  the  two  little  strollers, 
and  who  not  only  put  them  at  the  worst  end  of  the  table,  but  served 
them  with  the  worst  morsels.  Their  good  appetite,  and  natural  fru- 
gality caused  them  however  to  think  these  excellent,  and  their  good' 
humor  having  disarmed  the  pride  of  the  serving  men,  they  were  le- 
quested  to  make  some  music  to  amuse  messieurs,  the  lackeys,  at  their 
dessert.  Joseph  at  once  avenged  himself  of  their  previous  grudge  by 
playing  the  violin  very  obligingly,  and  Consuelo  herself,  no  longer  feel- 
ing anything  of  her  sufferings  and  agitations  of  the  morning,  began 
to  sing,  when  word  was  brought  that  the  count  and  the  baron  wanted 
some  music  for  their  own  diversion.  There  was  no  possibility  of  refus- 
ing. After  the  aid  which  the  two  lords  had  given  them,  Consuelo 
would  have  considered  any  hesitation  on  her  part  a piece  of  gross  in- 
gratitude, and  moreover  to  make  a pretext  of  fatigue  or  hoarseness 
would  not  have  answered,  since  their  voices  rising  from  the  offices  to 
the  parlor  had  doubtless  long  since  reached  the  ears  of  the  masters. 

She  followed  Joseph,  therefore,  who  like  herself  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  play  his  part  to  his  best  during  their  pilgrimage;  and  when 
they  had  entered  ahffndsome  dining-room  where,  by  the  light  of  twen 
ty  wax  candles,  the  two  nobles  sat  leaning  their  elbows  on  the  board, 
with  their  last  bottle  of  Hungary  wine  before  them,  they  stoo  1 at  th« 


con  sublOi 


861 

door  like  musicians  of  low  grade,  and  began  to  sing  the  little  Italian 
duets  which  they  had  studied  together  in  the  mountains.  “ Atten- 
tion! Joseph,”  cried  Consuelo,  mischievously.  “ Remember  that 
Monsieur  le  Comte  wishes  to  examine  us ; let  us  try  to  acquit  our- 
selves creditably.” 

The  count  was  much  flattered  by  this  reflection ; the  baron  had 
placed  the  portrait  of  his  mysterious  dulcinea  on  his  reversed  plate, 
and  did  not  appear  at  all  disposed  to  listen. 

Consuelo  was  on  her  guard  against  displaying  either  the  full  com- 
pass of  her  voice  or  the  fhll  extent  of  her  resources.  Her  pretended 
sex  did  not  admit  of  tones  so  soft  and  liquid,  nor  was  her  assumed 
%ge  consistent  with  such  an  amount  of  talent  and  science.  She  coun- 
terfeited a boy’s  voice,  somewhat  hoarse  and  deteriorated  by  prema- 
ture exertion.  It,  moreover,  amused  her  to  imitate  the  artless  Inac- 
curacies, and  temerities  of  misapplied  ornaments,  which  she  had  so 
often  heard  committed  by  children  in  the  streets  of  Venice.  But,  al- 
though she  desported  herself  wondrously  in  that  species  of  musical 
parody,  there  was  so  much  natural  taste  in  her  whimsicalities,  and  the 
duet  was  sung  with  so  much  spirit  and  concert,  that  the  baron,  who 
really  was  a musician,  and  of  a fine  artistic  organization,  replaced  his 
miniature  in  his  bosom,  raised  his  head,  fldgetted  in  his  chair,  and 
ended  by  clapping  his  hands  violently,  and  crying  out  that  it  was  the 
truest  and  most  feeling  music  he  had  ever  heard.  Count  Hoditz,  how- 
ever, whose  head  was  full  of  Fuchs,  Rameau,  and  his  classic  authors, 
did  not  equally  appreciate  either  the  style  of  the  composition  or  the 
method  of  rendering  it.  He  thought  in  his  own  mind  that  the  baron 
was  a northern  barbarian,  and  that  his  two  protegees  were  sufficiently 
Intelligent  scholars,  but  that  by  his  own  lessons  he  should  have  to  ele- 
vate them  out  of  the  mire  of  ignorance.  It  was  his  mania  to  form  his 
artists  by  his  own  teaching,  and  he  said  with  a sententious  shake  of  the 
head,  “ There  is  something  pretty  good  in  this— but  there  will  be  very 
much  to  correct.  Well!  well!  we  will  soon  arrange  all  that!”  He 
pictured  to  himself  that  Joseph  and  Consuelo  were  already  his  own 
private  property,  and  a portion  of  his  choir.  He  afterwards  begged 
Haydn  to  play  on  the  violin— and  as  he  had  no  interest  in  the  conceal- 
ment of  his  talent,  he  played  admirably  well  an  air  of  his  own  compo- 
sition, which  was  particularly  well  adapted  to  the  instrument.  This 
^time  the  count  was  very  well  pleased.  “ As  for  you,”  said  he;  “ your 
place  is  already  found.  You  shall  be  my  first  violin — you  will  suit 
me  then  exactly.  But  you  must  practice  also  on  the  mole  d’ amour  ; I 
prefer  the  mole  d’amour  to  any  instrument— I will  teach  you  how  to 
play  it.” 

“Is  Monsieur  le  Baron  also  well  pleased  with  my  comrade’! 
music?”  asked  Consuelo  of  Trenck,  who  had  again  relapsed  Into 
deep  thought 

“ So  well  pleased,”  he  answered ; “ that  in  case  of  my  making  any 
stav  In  Vienna,  I will  have  no  master  but  him.” 

“I  will  teach  you  the  viole  d’amour ,”  said  the  count;  “ and  I ask 
the  refusal.” 

“ I prefer  the  violin,  and  this  teacher,”  said  the  baron,  who,  absent- 
minded  as  he  was,  showed  a most  magnanimous  sincerity ; — and  with 
the  words  he  took  up  the  violin  and  played  some  passages  of  the  piece 
which  Joseph  had  just  given,  with  much  purity  and  correct  expres- 
sion. Then  returning  the  instrument,  he  said  with  unfeigned  modes- 
ty—* I ©nly  played  it  to  let  you  see  that  I am  fitted  only  te  basons* 


88* 


coir  auBLOu 


your  scholar:  but  that  with  attention  and  obedience  I am  capable  of 
learning.” 

Consuelo  asked  him  to  play  something  more,  and  he  did  so  at  once, 
without  any  affectation.  He  had  talent,  taste,  and  intelligence,  and 
Hoditz  praised  the  composition  of  his  piece  extravagantly. 

“ It  is  not  very  good,”  said  Trenck  carelessly ; “ for  it  is  my  own. 
But  I like  it,  because  it  pleased  my  princess.” 

The  count  made  a hideous  grimace,  as  if  to  warn  Trenck  of  his  in- 
advertency ; but  he  took  not  the  slightest  notice,  but  buried  in  his 
own  thoughts,  drew  the  bow  backward  and  forward  over  the  strings 
for  a few  moments,  and  then  rising,  laid  the  violin  on  the  table  and, 
drawing  his  hand  across  his  brow,  strode  to  and  fro  for  a minute  or 
two,  then  coming  up  to  the  count,  he  said  to  him : 
u I am  compelled  to  wish  you  good  night,  my  dear  count ; for  being 
compelled  to  set  out  at  daybreak,  I ordered  my  carriage  to  be  ready  to 
take  me  up  here  at  three  in  the  morning.  Since  you  propose  to  stay 
here  all  the  morning,  in  all  probability  we  shall  not  meet  again  till  we 
reach  Vienna.  I shall  be  truly  glad  to  see  you  again  then,  and  to 
thank  you  for  the  agreeable  termination  of  the  journey,  which  I have 
made  in  your  company.  Truly  and  from  my  heart,  I am  devoted  to 
you  through  life.” 

They  pressed  each  the  other’s  hand  several  times ; but  before  he  left 
the  room  the  baron  drew  near  to  Joseph,  and  handed  him  some  gold 
pieces,  saying : “ This  is  on  account . of  the  lessons  which  I shall  ask 


you  to  give  me  at  Vienna. — You  will  find  me  at  the  Prussian  ambas- 
sador’s.” Then  he  gave  Consuelo  a little  nod  of  the  head,  saying: 
u As  for  you,  if  I ever  find  you  as  drummer  or  trumpeter  in  my  regi- 
ment, we  will  desert  together — do  you  understand  me  ? ” and  there- 
upon he  left  the  apartment,  after  having  bowed  once  again  to  Count 
Hodita. 


CHAPTER  LXXm. 

So  soon  as  the  Count  Hoditz  found  himself  alone  with  his  musi- 
cians, he  felt  himself  more  at  his  ease,  and  became  very  communi-  w 
cative.  Nothing  gave  him  more  pleasure  than  to  play  the  part  of 
chapel  master,  or  director  of  an  opera ; and  he  wanted  Consuelo  to 
begin  her  musical  education  without  further  delay.  “ Come  hither,” 
said  he,  “ and  sit  down.  We  have  it  all  to  ourselves  now,  and  no  one 
can  listen  or  attend  who  is  not  half  a league  absent  ft'om  all  the  rest 
of  the  world. — Sit  down  you,  also,”  said  he  to  Joseph — “ and  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  lesson.  You  do  not  know  how  to  make  the  smallest 
trill”  said  he  again,  addressing  the  great  cantatrice.  “ Listen,  this  is 
the  way  it  is  done  ” — and  he  sang  a very  common-place  passage,  in- 
troducing two  or  three  of  those  ornaments  into  it,  in  the  vulgarest 
style  imaginable.  Consuelo  amused  herself  by  repeating  the  phrase, 
substituting  a descending  for  an  ascending  trill. 

“ It  is  not  so  I ” cried  the  count  in  a stentorian  voice,  slapping  bis 
hand  upon  the  table.  “ You  did  not  listen  to  me.” 

Re  began  again ; and  again  Consuelo  sang  the  ornaments  false,  in 
a manner  much  more  desperately  than  she  had  done  the  first  tira«| 
keeping  her  gravity,  and  affecting  to  make  the  greatest  efforts  of  at* 


COMSUKLO, 


868 


loatiou  and  exertion.  Joseph  was  choking  with  suppressed  laughter 
and  pretended  to  be  seized  with  a fit  of  coughing,  in  order  to  eon- 
eeal  it. 

*•  La-la-la— trala—trala ! ” sang  the  count,  mocking  his  inexpert 
scholar,  and  fidgetting  on  his  chair  with  all  the  symptoms  of  a violent 
indignation,  which  he  really  did  not  feel  in  the  slightest  degree,  but 
which  he  thought  it  necessary  to  assume  for  the  support  of  the  power, 
and  magisterial  dignity  of  his  manner. 

CoMsuelo  made  fun  of  him  for  a good  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then, 
when  she  was  fairly  tired,  sang  the  trill  with  all  the  clearness  and 
power  of  which  she  was  capable. 

“ Bravo  1 oravissimo ! ” cried  the  count,  leaning  back  in  his  chair — 
u At  last,  that  is  perfect.  I was  sure  I could  teach  it  to  you.  Let  any 
one  bring  me  the.  first  peasant  I can  find,  and  I am  siufe  of  forming 
him,  and  teaching  him  in  a single  day  all  that  others  would  fail  to  do 
in  a year.  Once  more  sing  that  phrase,  and  carefully  mark  all  the 
notes,  but  so  lightly  that  you  shall  scarce  seem  to  touch  them.  That 
is  much  better — that  cannot  be  improved.  We  shall  make  something 
of  you,  I see  ” — and  the  count  wiped  his  brow,  although  there  was 
not  a drop  of  moisture  on  it. 

“ Now,”  he  resumed — “the  cadence  with  a fall  and  turn  of  the  pipe!  ” 
and  he  set  her  the  example  with  one  of  those  every-day  abilities 
which  the  worst  singers  acquire,  merely  from  hearing  superior  artists, 
in  whom  they  admire  only  their  tours  de  force , and  to  whom  they 
think  themselves  fully  equal —because  they  can  imitate  them  in  these. 
Consuelo  again  diverted  herself  by  putting  the  count  into  one  of  his 
cold-blooded  fits  of  affected  passion  which  he  loved  to  display  when- 
ever he  mounted  his  hobby,  and  concluded  by  giving  a cadence  so 
perfect  and  so  long  drawn  out,  that  he  was  forced  to  cry — 

“ Enough  I enough  I It  is  done ; you  have  got  it  now.  I was  very 
sure  that  I should  give  you  the  key  to  it.  Now,  then,  let  us  pass  to 
the  roulade.  You  learn  with  marvellous  ease — I wish  that  I always 
had  pupils  as  promising  as  you  are.” 

Consuelo,  who  began  to  feel  sleep  and  fatigue  gaining  upon  her, 
greatly  abridged  the  lesson  of  the  roulade . She  performed  all  those 
which  the  rich  pedagogue  prescribed  to  her,  with  perfect  docility,  in 
how  bad  taste  they  were  soever;  and  she  eyen  allowed  her  fine  voice 
to  resound  naturally — no  longer  fearing  to  betray  herself,  when  she 
saw  that  the  count  was  determined  to  attribute  to  himself  alone,  and 
his  instructions,  all  the  sudden  brilliance  and  celestial  purity  which 
her  voice  displayed  more  and  more,  at  each  succeeding  minute. 

“ How  his  voice  clears  up,  as  I show  him  how  he  ought  to  open  his 
mouth  and  throw  out  his  voice!”  said  he  to  Joseph,  as  he  turned 
round  with  an  air  of  triumph.  “ Distinctness  in  teaching,  persever- 
ance, and  example,  these  are  the  three  things  by  which  singers  and 
orators  are  made  in  a very  short  time.  We  will  take  another  lesson 
to-morrow,  for  we  have  ten  lessons  to  take,  at  the  end  of  which  you 
will  know  how  to  sing.  We  have  the  appogiatura , the  Jlatte,  the  sus- 
tained part  of  the  voice,  and  the  perfect  part  of  the  voice,  the  fall,  the 
tender  inflexion,  the  gay  marked  quaver,  and  the  cadence  in  diesis, 
<fcc.,  <fec.  Now  go  to  bed — I have  c rdered  rooms  to  be  prepared  for 
you  in  this  palace.  I remain  here  on  business  until  noon  to-morrow; 
you  will  breakfast  and  follow  me  to  Vienna.  Consider  yourselves 
from  this  moment  as  being  in  my  service;  and  as  a beginning,  go, 
Joeeph,  and  tall  my  valet-de-chaxnbre  to  come  and  light  me  to  my 


864 


CONStJSIiO' 


room.  Do  you,”  he  continued,  addressing  Consuelo,  “stay  bin  1 
am  not  quite  satisfied  with  your  ast  roulaae ; pray  repeat  it” 

But  scarcely  had  Joseph  left  the  room,  before  the  count  caught  both 
Consuelo’s  hands  with  very  expressive  glances,  and  tried  to  draw  her 
toward  him.  Interrupted  in  her  roulade,  Consuelo  gazed  at  him  iu 
great  amazement,  believing  that  he  wanted  to  make  her  beat  time: 
but  she  jerked  her  hands  away  from  him  very  abruptly,  and  retreated 
to  the  end  of  the  table,  as  soon  as  she  saw  his  sparkling  eyes  and 
meaning  smile. 

“ What,  are  you  going  to  play  the  prude  ? ” said  the  count,  resum- 
ing his  indolent  and  haughty  air.  “ Well,  pretty  one,  you  have  got  a 
little  lover,  hey  ? He  is  very  ugly,  poor  fellow,  and  I hope  from  this 
day  forth  you  will  think  no  more  about  him.  Your  fortune  is  made 
if  you  do  not  hesitate  about  it,  for  I detest  long  delays.  You  are  a 
lovely  girl,  full  of  cleverness  and  gentleness ; you  please  me  very  much, 
and  from  the  first  moment  when  I set  eyes  on  you,  I saw  that  you 
were  not  made  to  ramble  about  the  country  with  that  little  rogue. 
However,  I will  take  care  of  him  too ; I will  have  him  taken  to  Ros- 
wald,  and  charge  myself  with  his  future  destinies.  As  for  you,  you 
shall  go  to  Vienna;  I will  provide  suitable  lodgings  for  you,  and  what 
is  more,  if  you  continue  prudent  and  modest,  I will  bring  yon  out  in 
the  great  world.  As  soon  as  you  know  something  about  music,  you 
shall  be  the  prima  donna  at  my  theatre,  and  you  shall  see  your  little 
chance  companion,  when  I bring  you  to  my  residence.  Do  you  un- 
derstand me?” 

“ Yes,  Monsieur  le  Comte,”  replied  Consuelo  with  perfect  gravity, 
making  him  a very  low  bow,  “ I understand  you  perfectly.” 

Joseph  came  back  at  that  moment  with  the  valet  de  chambre,  car- 
rying a flambeau  in  each  hand.  And  the  count  made  his  exit,  after 
giving  Joseph  a little  tap  on  the  cheek,  and  Consuelo  a glance  of 
intelligence. 

“ He  is  certainly  a finished  ass,”  said  Joseph  to  his  comrade,  as  soon 
as  they  were  left  alone. 

“ Much  more  finished  than  you  can  imagine,”  she  replied  very 
pensively. 

“ All  one  for  that.  He  is  the  best  man  in  the  world,  and  will  be  of 
great  use  to  me  in  Vienna.” 

w Aye ! at  Vienna,  of  as  much  use  as  you  will,  Beppo;  but  at  Passau, 
he  will  not  be  of  the  least  use  to  us  in  the  world.  I can  tell  you  that, 
J oseph.  Where  is  our  baggage  ? ” 

“ In  the  kitchen.  I am  going  to  fetch  them  up-stairs  to  our  rooms, 
which  are  charming,  as  they  tell  me.  You  will  get  a good  night’s  rest 
at  last.” 

Good,  Joseph,”  said  Consuelo  shrugging  up  her  shoulders. 
“ Come,”  she  resumed,  “ go  as  quick  as  you  can,  make  up  your  pack- 
age, and  give  up  your  pretty  room  and  the  good  bed,  in  which  you 
have  been  looking  forward  to  so  sweet  a sleep.  We  leave  this  house 
this  moment;  do  you  hear  me?  Make  haste,  or  they  will  have  shut 
the  gates.” 

Haydn  thought  he  was  dreaming.  “ Ah  I indeed,  very  likely,”  said 
he.  “ I suppose  these  great  lords  are  recruiters  also — bey  ? ” 

“ I am  much  more  afraid  of  the  Hoditz,  than  I was  of  the  Mayer,” 
said  Consuelo  impatiently.  “ Come,  bestir  yourself,  do  not  hesitate 
or  I leave  you,  and  set  forth  alone.” 

There  was  so  much  determined  energy  in  Consuelo’*  face  and  voice 


CONSUELO, 


m 


fee | Haydn  bewildered  and  annoyed  as  he  was,  obeyed  hsr  in  haste. 
K*  returned  in  less  than  thi  ae  minutes  with  the  knapsack  containing 
their  clothes  and  their  music;  and  in  three  minutes  more,  undiscov- 
ered by  any  one,  they  had  left  the  palace,  and  were  away  to  the  suburb, 
at  the  farthest  end  of  the  town. 

They  entered  an  inferior  sort  of  inn,  and  hired  two  miserable  lit£e 
rooms,  paying  for  them  in  advance,  so  that  they  might  be  able  to  start 
as  early  as  they  would,  without  delay. 

' “Will  you  not,  at  least,  tell  me  the  meaning  of  this  new  alarm ?* 
asked  Haydn,  as  he  wished  Consuelo  good  evening  at  her  chamber 
door. 

M Sleep  in  peace,”  said  she,  44  and  learn  in  two  words  that  we  have 
now  nothing  to  fear.  Monsieur  Le  Comte  has  discovered  with  his 
eagle-eye,  that  I am  not  of  his  sex,  and  has  done  me  the  honor  of 
making  me  a proposal,  excessively  flattering  to  my  self-esteem.  Good 
night,  my  friend.  We  will  decamp  before  dawn.  I will  knock  at  your 
door  to  awaken  you.” 

On  the  following  day,  the  rising  sun  shone  on  our  friends  as  they 
sailed  down  the  rapid  current  of  the  Danube  with  delight  as  pure,  and 
hearts  as  lively  as  the  waves  of  that  noble  river.  They  had  paid  their 
passage  to  an  old  boatman  who  was  taking  down  his  barque-load  of 
manufactures  to  Lintz.  He  was  a fine  old  man,  with  whom  they  had 
no  fault  to  find,  and  who  did  not  annoy  them  with  his  conversation. 
He  did  not  understand  a syllable  of  Italian,  and  h^took  no  other  pas- 
sengers, inasmuch  as  his  boat  was  already  sufficiently  loaded.  And 
this  at  length  gave  them  that  security  of  mind,  and  repose  of  body,  of 
which  they  stood  so  much  in  need,  in  order  to  enjoy  properly  the 
beautiful  and  momentarily  changing  scenery  which  this  fine  navigation 
afforded  to  them.  The  weather  was  lovely.  There  was  a nice  clean 
little  hold  to  the  boat,  into  which  Consuelo  could  descend  if  she  de- 
sired to  rest  her  eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  sunlight  on  the  waters ; but 
she  was  so  much  inured  to  the  open  air,  and  the  broad  sunshine,  that 
she  preferred  lounging  among  the  bales  on  deck,  deliciously  occupied 
with  watching  the  trees  and  rocks  on  the  shore,  as  they  appeared  to 
glance  by  them.  She  could  play  and  sing  at  her  ease  with  Haydn , 
and  the  comical  recollection  of  Hoditz  the  melo-maniac , or  maestro- 
maniac,  as  Joseph  styled  him,  added  much  to  the  gaiety  of  their  war- 
nings. Joseph  took  him  off  to  admiration,  and  felt  a sort  of  spiteful 
pleasure  at  the  thought  of  his  discomfiture.  Their  songs  and  merri- 
ment charmed  and  enlivened  the  old  navigator,  who  was,  like  every 
German  of  the  lower  orders,  passionately  fond  of  music.  He  also  sang 
them  several  airs,  in  which  they  discovered  a certain  nautical  expres- 
sion, which  Consuelo  learned  of  him,  as  well  as  the  words ; and  they 
completely  won  his  heart  by  treating  him  to  the  best  at  the  first  land- 
ing place,  where  they  lay  to,  in  order  to  take  in  their  provisions  for 
thb  day’s  journey;  and  that  day  was  the  pleasantest  and  the  most 
peaceful  they  spent'  since  the  beginning  of  their  pilgrimage. 

“Capital  Baron  de  Trenck!”  said  Joseph,  as  he  changed  for  small 
coins  one  of  the  brilliant  pieces  of  gold  which  that  noble  had  given 
him.  44  It  is  to  him  that  I owe  the  ability  to  preserve  the  divine  Por- 
porina  from  weariness,  hunger,  danger,  and  all  the  ills  which  misery 
carries  in  its  train.  And  yet  I did  not  like  him  at  first  sight,  that  ex- 
cellent and  noble  baron.” 

44  I know  it,”  said  Consuelo, 44  you  preferred  the  count  to  him.  I am 
happy  now  that  he  limited  himself  to  promises,  and  that  he  did  net 
•orrupt  our  hands  by  his  benefits.” 


C0N8UBLG, 


m 

u After  all  is  said,”  replied  Haydn,  “ we  owe  him  nothing.  Wfce 
wms  it  that  first  determined,  and  first  had  spirit  enough  to  ffght  the 
recruiters  ? The  baron  of  course.  The  count  cared  nothing  about  It 
and  only  did  so  through  complaisance,  and  because  he  thought  it  the 
ihshion  to  do  so.  Who  was  it  that  ran  all  the  risks,  and  received  a 
outlet  through  his  hat,  and  very  close  to  his  brains  ? The  baron  again. 
Who  was  it  that  wounded,  and  perhaps  killed  the  infamous  Pistola  ? 
The  baron  once  more.  Who  was  it  that  saved  the  deserter,  to  his 
own  cost  perhaps,  and  at  the  risk  of  incurring  the  wrath  of  his  terri- 
ble master  ? Last  of  all,  who  was  it  that  respected  you  without  pre- 
tending to  recognise  your  sex,  and  both  understood  and  appreciated 
the  beauty  of  your  Italian  airs,  and  the  good  taste  of  your  manner  of 
singing?” 

“ Not  to  say  the  genius  of  Master  Joseph  Haydn  ? ” added  Consuelo, 
with  a sly  smile.  “ The  baron — still  the  baron.” 

“ Undoubtedly,”  said  Haydn,  paying  her  back  for  the  malice  of  her 
observation ; “ and  it  is  perhaps  very  fortunate  for  a noble  and  well- 
beloved  absentee,  of  whom  I have  heard  speak,  that  the  declaration 
of  love  to  the  divine  Porporina  came  from  the  ridiculous  count,  instead 
of  from  the  brave  and  seductive  baron.” 

u Beppo ! ” replied  Consuelo,  with  a wan  and  mournful  smile,  u the 
absent  are  never  wronged  but  by  ungrateful  and  coward  hearts. 
Therefore  it  is,  that  the  baron,  himself  generous  and  sincere,  who  is 
deeply  in  love  with  his  mysterious  beauty,  could  never  think  of  pay- 
ing court  to  me.  I ask  you  yourself,  could  you  so  easily  sacrifice  the 
love  of  your  betrothed,  and  the  faith  of  your  heart,  to  a fancy  for  the 
first  comer?” 

Beppo  sighed  deeply.  “ A passion  for  you,  by  whomsoever  nour- 
ished, could  not  be  termed  a fancy  for  the  first  comer?  said  he,  “ and 
the  baron  would  have  been  perfectly  excusable  for  forgetting  all  hit 
past  and  present  loves  on  seeing  you.” 

“ You  are  becoming  quite  gallant  and  flattering,  Beppo.  I see  that 
you  have  profited  by  the  society  of  Monsieur  le  Comte.  But  I trust 
that  you  may  never  marry  a Margravine,  and  learn  how  love  is  re- 
garded by  those  who  marry  for  money.” 

They  arrived  at  Lintz  that  night,  and  slept  there,  careless  and  fear- 
less, until  the  morrow.  So  soon  as  Joseph  was  awakened,  he  hurried 
to  buy  shoes,  linen,  and  several  little  articles  of  masculine  attire  for 
himself,  as  well  as  for  Consuelo,  who  was  now  enabled  to  make  her- 
self brave  and  a beau , as  Consuelo  said  in  fine,  to  walk  about  the 
town  and  its  neighborhood.  The  old  boatman  had  told  them  that  if 
he  could  get  a freight  for  Moelk,  he  would  take  them  on  board,  the 
next  day,  and  carry  them  yet  twenty  leagues  further  down  the  Dan- 
ube. They  passed  that  day,  therefore,  at  Lintz,  amused  themselves 
with  climbing  the  hill,  examining  the  strong  castles  at  the  bottom  and 
on  the  top  of  it,  whence  they  could  survey  the  majestic  windings  of 
the  river,  through  the  fertile  plains  of  Austria.  From  that  elevation 
they  descried  what  greatly  delighted  them,  the  triumphal  entry, 
namely,  of  Count  Hoditz  driving  into  the  town.  They  recognised 
both  the  carriage  and  the  liveries,  and  amused  themselves  by  making 
low  bows  quite  down  to  the  ground,  without  the  possibility  of  being 
seen  by  him.  Toward  evening  they  came  down  again  to  the  shore, 
and  round  their  boat  laden  with  freight  for  Moelk;  whereupon  they 
joyfully  made  a new  bargain  with  their  old  steersman,  embarked 
before  daybreak,  and  saw  the  stars  serenely  burning  far  above  their 


CONSTJELO, 


86? 


MU,  while  tne  reflection  of  those  stars  ran  In  long  silvery  wakes 
over  the  moving  mirror  of  the  ripples.  This  day  was  not  less  delight- 
fill  than  the  preceding.  Joseph  had  but  one  regret,  in  the  thought 
that  they  were  hourly  drawing  nearer  to  Vienna,  and  that  their  jour- 
ney, the  sufferings  and  the  sorrows  of  which  he  had  ail  forgotten,  in 
the  memory  of  its  last  delicious  instants,  was  drawing  to  its  end. 

At  Moelk  they  had  to  part  from  the  brave  old  pilot,  and  that  not 
without  regret.  They  did  not  find  in  any  of  the  vessels,  which  were 
in  readiness  to  convey  them  farther  down  the  stream,  any  which 
offered  the  same  conditions  of  solitude  and  security.  Consuelo  felt 
herself  entirely  refreshed,  recruited,  and  proof  against  all  future  acci- 
dents. She  proposed  to  Joseph  to  resume  their  pedestrian  habit* 
until  something  new  should  occur.  They  had  still  twenty  leagues  to 
go,  and  this  mode  of  procedure  was  not  certainly  the  most  rapid. 
The  truth  is,  Consuelo,  though  she  strove  hard  to  persuade  herself 
that  she  was  all  anxiety  to  resume  the  dress  of  her  sex,  and  the  pro- 
prieties of  her  station,  was  as  little  anxious,  at.  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  as  was  Joseph  himself  to  see  the  end  of  their  expedition.  She 
was  too  thoroughly  an  artist,  to  the  inmost  nerve  of  her  organization, 
not  to  love  the  liberty,  the  adventurous  risks,  the  deeds  of  courage  or 
address,  and  the  constant  and  varied  spectacle  which  the  foot  passen- 
ger alone  enjoys  in  perfection ; not  to  love,  in  a word,  all  the  roman- 
tic activity  and  vicissitude  of  a wandering  and  solitary  existence. 


CHAPTER  LXXIV. 

The  first  day  of  this,  their  new  start,  as  our  travellers  crossed  a 
little  stream,  by  a wooden  bridge,  they  saw  a poor  mendicant  who 
held  a little  girl  in  her  arms,  and  who  was  huddled  up  beside  the 
parapet,  stretching  out  her  hand  for  charity  to  the  passengers.  The 
child  was  pale  and  suffering,  the  woman  haggard  and  shivering  with 
fever.  Consuelo  was  deeply  touched  by  sympathy  and  pity  at  this 
scene,  which  strongly  reminded  her  of  herself  and  her  mother. 
“ This  is  as  we  were  once,”  said  she  to  Joseph,  who  understood  her 
at  half  a word,  and  who  stopped  with  her  to  examine  and  question 
the  mendicant. 

“ Alas ! ” said  she,  “ it  is  but  a few  days,  and  I was  very  happy.  I 
am  a peasant,  from  the  vicinity  of  Harmanitz  in  Bohemia.  I had 
married,  five  years  ago,  a fine  stout  cousin  of  my  own,  who  was  the 
most  laborious  of  mechanics,  and  the  best  of  husbands.  At  the  end 
of  a year,  my  poor  Karl,  who  had  gone  to  cut  wood  in  the  mountains, 
suddenly  disappeared,  without  any  person  being  able  to  conjecture 
what  had  become  of  him.  At  once,  I fell  into  the  depths  of  poverty 
and  of  sorrow.  * I thought  my  husband  had  fallen  from  some  preci- 
pice and  been  devoured  by  wolves.  Although  it  was  often  in  my 
power  to  marry  a second  time,  the  uncertainty  of  his  fate,  and  the 
love  which  I still  felt  for  him,  did  not  permit  me  to  entertain  such  a 
thought.  Oh  I well  was  I recompensed,  my  children.  Last  year, 
some  one  knocked  at  my  door  one  night ; I opened  it,  and  fell  on  my 
knees  at  seeing  my  dear  husband  before  me.  But,  gracious  heaven*  J 
Ift  what  a condition.  He  looked  like  a phantom.  He  was  withered^ 


coxitriLo. 


Ml 

yellow,  with  haggard  eyes,  hair  stiff  with  Icicles,  feet  covered  with 
blood— those  poor  feet  with  which  he  had  travelled,  I know  not  how 
many  hundreds  of  miles  over  the  most  hideous  of  roads,  in  the  most 
inclement  of  winters.  But  he  was  so  happy  at  again  rejoining  his 
wife,  and  his  poor  little  girl,  that  he  soon  recovered  his  health,  his 
good  looks,  and  his  ability  to  work.  He  told  me  that  he  had  been 
carried  off  by  brigands  who  had  carried  him  very  far,  almost  to  the 
sea  coast,  and  had  sold  him  to  the  king  of  Prussia  for  a soldier.  He 
had  lived  three  years  in  that  cruel  servitude,  at  the  hardest  of  all 
trades,  beaten  from  morning  until  night.  At  length,  he  succeeded  in 
escaping,  in  deserting,  my  good  children.  Fighting,  like  a desperado, 
against  his  pursuers,  he  had  killed  one,  and  put  out  the  eye  of  another, 
by  throwing  a stone.  To  conclude,  he  had  walked,  day  and  night, 
concealing  himself  in  the  morasses  and  the  woods  like  a wild  beast; 
he  had  traversed  Saxony  and  Bohemia,  and  he  had  escaped — he  was 
restored  to  me.  Ah ! how  happy  we  were  during  that  winter,  in  spite 
of  all  the  inclemency  of  the  season,  and  the  hardships  of  poverty.  We 
had  but  one  cause  of  anxiety,  and  that  was  the  fear  of  seeing  the  birds 
who  had  caused  all  our  misery  reappear  in  our  neighborhood ; we  had 
often  thought  of  going  to  Vienna,  to  see  the  Empress,  tell  her  the  tale 
of  our  woes,  obtain  her  protection,  military  service  for  my  husband, 
and  some  means  of  subsistence  for  myself  and  my  little  girl;  but  I fell 
ill  in  consequence  of  the  revulsion  of  feeling  which  I experienced  on 
recovering  my  poor  Karl,  and  we  were  compelled  to  pass  the  whole 
winter  and  the  following  summer  in  our  mountains,  always  awaiting 
the  moment  when  we  should  be  able  to  set  out,  always  keeping  on 
our  guard,  and  sleeping  only  with  one  eye  closed.  At  length,  the 
happy  day  arrived ; I had  become  strong  enough  to  walk,  but  my 
little  girl,  who  was  still  weak,  was  to  journey  in  the  arms  of  her  father 
But  our  ill  fortune  awaited  us  on  issuing  from  the  mountains.  We 
were  walking  quietly  and  slowly  along  the  edge  of  an  unfrequented 
road,  without  paying  any  attention  to  a carriage  which,  for  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour,  had  been  slowly  ascending  the  same  steep.  On 
a sudden  the  carriage  stopped,  and  three  men  got  out  of  it.  4 Are 
you  sure  it  is  he?’  asked  one.  * Yes/  replied  the  other,  who  was 
one-eyed.  4 Upon  him  1 upon  him ! ’ — My  husband  turned  round  and 
exclaimed,  4 Ah  I they  are  Prussians.  That  is  the  fellow  whose  eye 
I knocked  out.  I recognise  him.’ — 4 Fly ! ’ I exclaimed — 4 fly — save 
yourself! 9 He  had  already  taken  to  flight,  when  one  of  the  monsters 
flew  upon  me,  struck  me  down,  and  set  the  muzzle  of  one  pistol  to 
my  head,  and  another  to  that  of  my  little  girl.  Had  it  not  been  for 
that  fiendish  idea,  he  would  have  escaped,  for  he  ran  much  better 
than  the  brigands,  and  he  had  the  start  of  them.  But  at  the  cry  I 
uttered  wdien  I saw  the  pistol  at  my  child’s  head,  Karl  turned  round, 
set  up  a loud  shout  to  arrest  the  shot,  and  ran  back  as  fast  as  he  could. 
When  the  ruffian,  whose  foot  was  on  my  body,  saw  Karl  within  hear- 
ing, 4 Surrender,’  he  cried,  4 or  I kill  them  both.  Make  one  step  to 
escape,  and  all  is  over  with  them ! ’ — 4 1 surrender — I surrender — here 
I am !’  cried  my  poor  husband,  and  he  ran  back  to  them  quicker  than 
he  had  fled  at  the  first,  disregarding  all  my  prayers  that  he  would 
leave  us  to  die.  When  the  tigers  had  him  in  their  power,  they  beat 
him  till  he  was  half  dead,  and  covered  with  blood;  when  I advanced 
to  assist  him,  they  beat  me  too.  When  I saw  him  pinioned  before 
my  eyes,  I sobbed, 'and  filled  the  air  with  my  groans,  when  they  told 
me  that  if  I did  not  hold  silence,  they  would  kill  my  child.  They  had 


COHS€  ELO. 


869 

already  tom  It  from  my  arms,  when  Karl  said,  * Be  sftent,  wife ; I 
command  you — think  of  our  child/  I obeyed;  but  the  agony  I un- 
derwent at  seeing  my  husband  beaten,  bound,  and  gagged  before  my 
face,  while  those  monsters  cried  ‘ Aye  I weep — weep  I thou  wilt  never 
see  him  again,  for  we  lead  him  hence  to  be  hanged/  was  so  overpow- 
ering that  I fell  in  the  road  as  one  dead,  and  lay  all  day  senseless. 
When  I opened  my  eyes  it  was  night;  my  poor  child  lay  on  my 
bosom,  writhing  and  sobbing  as  if  its  heart  would  break;  there  was 
no  longer  anything  on  the  road  but  my  husband’s  blood,  and  the  traces 
of  the  carriage  wheels  which  carried  him  off.  I stopped  there  yet  an 
hour  or  two,  trying  to  console  and  reanimate  Maria,  who  was  as  cold 
as  ice,  and  half  dead  with  fear.  At  length,  when  I recovered  my 
senses,  I began  to  consider  which  was  the  best  to  be  done.  It  was 
•learly  not  to  pursue  the  robbers,  but  to  go  and  make  my  deposition 
oefore  the  magistrates  of  Wiesenbach,  which  was  the  nearest  town. 
This  I did;  and  I afterwards  determined  to  proceed  to  Vienna,  and 
cast  myself  at  the  feet  of  the  Empress,  in  order  that  she  may  prevent 
the  King  of  Prussia  from  executing  sentence  of  death  against  my 
husband.  Her  Majesty  can  reclaim  my  husband  as  her  subject,  in 
case  the  recruiters  cannot  be  overtaken.  I have  therefore  used  the 
small  alms  which  I obtained  in  the  lands  of  the  bishopric  of  Passau, 
in  getting  brought  so  far  as  the  Danube,  in  a cart,  and  thence  I came 
down  the  river  in  a boat  so  far  as  Moelk,  but  now  my  resources  are 
exhausted.  The  people  to  whom  I relate  my  adventure  are  unwilling 
to  receive  it,  and,  in  the  doubt  whether  I am  not  an  impostor,  give 
me  so  little,  that  I must  prosecute  my  journey  on  foot.  Happy,  if  I 
arrive  in  five  or  six  days,  without  dying  of  weariness ; for  sickness 
and  despair  are  consuming  me.  Now,  my  dear  children,  give  me  some 
little  charity,  if  you  have  the  means  of  doing  so,  for  I can  rest  no 
longer,  but  must  journey  onward,  still  onward,  like  the  wandering 
Jew,  until  I shall  obtain  justice.” 

“ Oh ! my  good  woman ! — my  poor  woman  I ” cried  Consuelo,  clasp- 
ing her  in  her  arms,  and  weeping  tears  of  joy  and  compassion 
“ Courage  I courage ! Have  good  hopes,  and  be  of  heart.  Your  hus- 
band is  free.  He  is  now  galloping  toward  Vienna,  on  a good  horsey 
with  a well  filled  purse  in  his  pocket.” 

“ What  say  you ! ” cried  the  deserter’s  wife,  whose  eyes  were  suf- 
fused with  tears,  while  her  lips  quivered  convulsively,  so  that  she 
could  hardly  speak.  “You  know  him  I You  have  seen  himl  Oh  I 
my  God ! Great  God ! God  of  goodness ! ” 

“ Alas!  what  are  you  doing?  ” said  Joseph  to  Consuelo, — “ suppose 
you  are  giving  her  but  a false  joy.  Suppose  the  deserter,  whom  we 
assisted  in  saving,  is  not  her  husband  ? ” 

“ It  is  he,  Joseph.  I tell  you  it  is  he.  Think  of  the  one-eyed  man 
—think  of  Pistola’s  manner  of  proceeding.  Remember  how  the  de- 
serter said  he  was  a father  of  a family,  and  an  Austrian  subject ; but 
it  is  very  easy  to  be  satisfied.  How  does  your  husband  look?  ” 

“ Red-haired,  gray-eyed,  large-faced,  five  feet  eight  inches  high ; hia 
nose  a little  flattened — his  forehead  low — a superb  man.” 

“ That  resembles  him  certainly,”  said  Consuelo.  “ And  how  wai 
he  dressed  ? ” 

“ An  old  green  cassock,  worn  breeches,  and  gray  stockings.” 

“ That  corresponds  also;  and  the  recruiters,  did  you  pay  any  atten- 
Hon  to  them?” 

“Did  I not  pay  attention ! — Holy  Virgin!  Their  horrible  tkom 


OONSTJBLO. 


•TO 

will  never  be  effaced  from  my  memory . 9 And  then  the  poor  woman 
accurately  described  Pistola,  the  silent  man,  and  him  with  the  one 
eye.  44  There  is  yet  one  other,”  said  the  poor  woman — 44  the  fourth* 
who  remained  near  the  horse,  and  took  no  part  in  what  was  passing. 
He  had  a coarse,  indifferent  face,  which  seemed  to  me  even  more 
cruel  than  that  of  the  others;  for,  while  I was  shrieking,  and  they 
were  beating  my  husband,  and  binding  him  with  cords,  like  an  assas- 
sin, the  fat  fellow  sat  there  humming,  and  mimicking  the  trumpet 
with  his  mouth:  4 Broum — broum— broum — broum  l ’ Ah!  what  a 
heart  of  steel ! ” 

“Well!  that  was  Mayer,”  said  Consuelo  to  Joseph.  “Can  you 
doubt  any  longer ; he  has  a trick  of  humming  continually,  and  of 
playing  the  trumpet  thus.” 

“ It  is  true,”  said  Joseph.  “It  was  then  Karl  whom  we  saw  deliv- 
ered. Thanks  be  to  Heaven ! ” 

“Yes,  thanks  to  kind  Heaven,  above  all,”  cried  the  poor  woman, 
casting  herself  on  her  knees,  “ and  you,  too,  Maria,  do  you,  too,  kiss 
the  earth  with  me,  to  thank  the  guardian  angels  and  the  Holy  Virgin. 
Your  father  is  found  again,  and  we  shall  soon  rejoin  him.” 

“ Tell  me,  my  good  woman,  is  it  a custom  with  Karl  to  kiss  the 
earth  when  he  is  very  happy?  ” 

44  Yes,  my  child;  he  never  fails  to  do  so.  When  he  came  back  to 
us  after  deserting,  he  would  not  enter  the  house,  until  he  had  kissed 
the  door-sill.” 

44  Is  that  a custom  of  your  country?  ” 

41  No ; it  is  a custom  of  his  own,  which  he  has  taught  us,  and  which 
has  always  stood  us  instead.” 

44  It  was  he  then  certainly  whom  we  saw,”  resumed  Consuelo, 44  for 
we  saw  him  kiss  the  earth  to  thank  those  who  had  delivered  him. 
Did  you  not  observe  it,  Beppo  ? ” 

44  Perfectly.  It  was  he.  There  cannot  now  be  a doubt  of  it.” 

“ Come,  let  me  clasp  you  to  my  heart,”  cried  Carl’s  wife.  44  Oh ! 
you  two ; you  are  angels  of  paradise,  to  bring  me  such  news.  But 
tell  me  how  it  fell  out  ? ” 

Joseph  told  her  all  that  had  happened,  and,  when  the  woman  had 
exhausted  her  gratitude  in  prayers  to  Heaven  for  the  welfare  of  Jo- 
seph and  Consuelo,  whom  she  very  naturally  regarded  as  the  first 
liberators  of  her  husband,  she  asked  what  she  had  better  do  to  re- 
cover him. 

“ I think  you  had  better  go  to  Vienna.  You  will  find  him  there,  if 
you  do  not  overtake  him  on  the  way.  Should  you  get  there  the  first, 
be  sure  that  you  inform  the  officers  of  the  administration  where  you 
live,  in  order  that  Karl  may  be  informed  the  moment  he  presents  him- 
self there.” 

44  Ah ! me ! what  officers? — what  administration ? I know  nothing 
of  their  habits.  I shall  be  lost  in  so  large  a city,  poor  peasant  that 
I am.” 

44  Hold ! ” said  Joseph.  44  We  have  never  had  any  business  by  whicn 
we  can  know  how  such  things  are  to  be  managed;  but  ask  the  first 

Sir  son  you  see  to  direct  you  to  the  Prussian  embassy.  Ask  them  for 
onsieur  le  Baron  de — ” 

44  Take  care  what  you  are  about,  Beppo,”  said  Consuelo  in  a whis- 


u Well  Count  Hodite,  then,”  said  Joseph.  44  Tee,  the  count  He 


871 


eONSUKLO. 

Trill  do  for  vanity  what  the  other  would  have  done  from  good  feeling 
inquire  for  the  house  of  the  Margravine,  Princess  of  Bareith,  and 
give  her  husband  the  note  which  I will  hand  to  you.” 

And  with  the  word,  she  tore  a white  leaf  ©ut  of  Joseph’s  blank 
book,  and  wrote  the  following  words  in  pencil : — “ Consuelo  Porporina, 
prima  donna  of  the  theatre  of  San  Samuel  at  Venice,  ex-signor  Ber- 
toni,  wandering  singer  at  Passau,  recommends  to  the  noble  heart  of 
the  Count  Hoditz  Roswald,  the  wife  of  Karl  the  deserter,  whom  his 
lordship  saved  from  the  hands  of  the  recruiters  and  loaded  with 
favors.  La  Porporina  promises  herself  the  pleasure  of  thanking 
Monsieur  le  Comte  for  his  protection,  in  the  presence  of  Madam  the 
Margravine,  if  Monsieur  the  Comte  will  permit  her  the  honor  of  sing- 
ing in  the  private  apartments  of  her  highness.”  Consuelo  signed  it 
carefully  and  looked  at  Joseph,  who,  understanding  her  at  a glance 
pulled  out  his  purse.  Without  farther  consultation,  and  by  a spon- 
taneous impulse,  they  then  gave  the  poor  woman  the  two  pieces  of 
gold  which  remained  to  them  of  Trenck’s  present,  in  order  that  she 
might  travel  in  a carriage,  and  walked  with  her  to  the  nearest  village, 
at  which  they  helped  her  to  make  her  bargain  with  a cheap  carriage 
driver.  Then,  having  procured  her  something  to  eat,  and  some  few 
articles  of  clothing  at  the  expense  of  the  rest  of  their  little  fortune, 
they  saw  the  happy  creature,  who  had  received  life  as  it  were  at  her 
hands,  embarked  on  her  journey. 

Consuelo  then  asked  with  a smile,  how  much  was  left  at  the  bottom 
of  the  purse. 

Joseph  took  up  the  violin,  shook  it  beside  his  ear,  and  replied, 
u Nothing  but  sound.” 

Consuelo  tried  her  voice  in  the  open  country,  executed  a brilliant 
roulade,  and  then  exclaimed—"  there  is  plenty  of  sound  left.”  Then 
she  Joyously  took  the  hand  of  her  companion,  gave  it  an  affectionate 
squeeze,  and  said — “You  are  a brave  lad,  Beppo.” 

M And  so  are  you,”  replied  Beppo,  bursting  into  a loud  fit  of  laugh- 
ter after  he  had  wiped  away  a tear* 


CHAPTER  LXKV. 

It  is  not  very  alarming  to  fall  short  of  money,  when  one  is  nearly 
at  the  end  of  a journey ; but  had  they  been  much  farther  distant 
from  it,  our  young  artists  would  not  have  felt  less  gay  than  they  now 
did  on  finding  themselves  all  hut  safely  landed.  One  has  found  him- 
self in  a foreign  country  destitute  of  resources;  for  Joseph  was  almost 
as  much  of  a stranger  as  Consuelo  at  that  distance  from  Vienna,  to 
know  what  marvellous  security,  what  enterprising  and  inventive  ge- 
nius are  revealed  to  the  artist,  who  has  thus  spent  his  last  penny. 
Up  to  that  very  moment,  it  is  a sort  of  agony — a continual  dread  of 
falling  short— a black  apprehension  of  sufferings,  of  embarrassments 
and  humiliations,  which  vanish  as  soon  as  the  chink  of  the  last  piece 
of  money  is  heard.  Then  to  poetic  minds,  a new  world  commences 
—a  holy  confidence  in  the  charity  of  others,  full  of  charming  illusions, 
mingled  with  a disposition  to  labor,  and  a willingness  to  be  satisfied, 
which  easily  triumph  over  all  obstacles. 


CON8CKLO, 


ITS 

* It  is  Sunday  to-day ,”  said  Consaelo  to  Joseph,  “ you  must  plaf 
dances  In  the  first  village  we  come  to.  We  shall  not  pass  through  two 
streets  ere  we  shall  find  plenty  of  people  who  will  wish  to  dance,  and 
will  gladly  hire  us  as  their  minstrels.  Do  you  know  how  to  make  s 
pipe  ? if  you  do,  I shaLl  easily  learn  to  make  some  use  of  it,  and  pro- 
vided I can  draw  a few  single  sounds  from  it,  that  will  suffice  for  an 
accompaniment  to  you.” 

“ Do  I know  how  to  make  a pipe?  ” cried  Joseph,  “ You  shall  soon 
see  that.” 

They  soon  found  on  the  river’s  edge  a reed  very  fit  from  which  to 
make  a pipe ; it  was  skillfully  pierced,  and  sounded  admirably.  The 
key  note  was  successfully  pitched,  a rehearsal  followed,  and  our 
young  folk  proceeded  very  quietly  to  a little  hamlet  at  about  three 
miles  distant,  which  they  entered  joyously  to  the  sound  of  their  in- 
struments, crying  at  every  door — “ Who  will  dance,  who  will  dance  * 
Here  are  the  instruments ; the  ball  is  about  to  begin.” 

They  soon  came  to  a little  square  planted  with  fine  trees,  to  which 
they  were  escorted  by  about  forty  children,  marching  in  time  to  the 
music,  clapping  their  bands,  and  shouting. 

Ere  long  two  or  three  merry  couples  came,  and  set  the  dust  flying 
as  they  opened  the  ball ; and,  before  the  ground  was  fairly  beaten  the 
whole  rustic  population  made  a circle  round  this  rustic  ball,  got  up 
without  premeditation  and  without  conditions.  At  the  conclusion 
of  the  first  waltzes,  Joseph  put  his  violin  under  his  arm,  and  Consuelo 
climbing  up  on  her  chair,  addressed  them- in  a little  speech,  informing 
them  that  when  artists  were  hungry,  their  fingers  were  always  stiff, 
and  they  were  themselves  short-winded.  Five  minutes  afterward, 
bread,  milk,  cakes  and  ale,  were  brought  to  them  in  abundance.  As 
to  salary,  they  very  soon  came  to  an  understanding,  a collection  was 
to  be  made,  at  which  each  person  should  give  what  he  pleased. 

When  they  had  done  eating,  they  mounted  again  on  a barrel,  which 
was  rolled  triumphantly  into  the  middle  of  the  circle,  and  the  danc- 
ing recommenced ; but  at  the  expiration  of  about  a couple  of  hours, 
they  were  interrupted  by  some  news  which  appeared  to  set  the  whole 
place  in  a stir,  and  which,  passing  from  mouth  to  mouth,  at  last  reach- 
ed the  minstrels.  The  village  shoemaker,  in  finishing  a pair  of  shoe* 
In  a great  hurry,  had  pricked  his  thumb  badly  with  his  awl. 

“ It  is  a serious  event — a great  misfortune,”  said  an  old  man  who 
was  leaning  against  the  barrel  on  'which  they  were  standing.  “ It  i* 
Gottlieb,  the  shoemaker,  who  is  our  village  organist,  and  to-morrow  is 
our  patron  saint’s  day.  Oh  I what  a holiday ! There  is  nothing  like 
It  within  ten  leagues  round.  Our  mass,  above  all,  is  a wonder,  and 
people  come  to  hear  it  from  great  distances.  Gottlieb  is  a real  chapel 
master.  He  is  the  organist,  he  makes  the  children  sing,  he  sings  him- 
self; in  a word,  what  does  he  not  do,  especially  on  our  holiday  ? And 
what  will  M.  le  Canon  say  ? M.  le  Canon  of  St.  Stephen’s,  who  is 
himself  the  officiating  minister  at  the  high  mass,  and  who  is  always 
so  well  pleased  with  our  music  ? He  is  passionately  fond  of  music,  is 
the  good  canon ; and  it  is  a matter  of  great  pride  with  us  to  see  him 
at  our  altar,  since  we  scarcely  belong  of  right  to  his  benefice,  and  it 
gives  him  not  a little  trouble  to  be  present  with  us,  which  he  does  not 
like  without  good  reason.” 

“Well,”  said  Consuelo,  “ all  tl.it  can  be  managed:  my  comrade  and 
I together  will  take  charge  of  the  organ,  of  the  singing- school,  of  th# 
mass,  in  a word ; and  if  Monsieur  th ) Canon  is  not  satisfied  with  3* 
We  will  take  nothing  for  our  trouble.” 


eOXKVBLO' 


m 

“Very  fine,  very  fine  I”  said  the  old  man.  “You  talk  about  it 
quite  at  your  ease,  young  man;  but  our  mass  is  not  played  with  a 
violin  and  a flute.  No,  indeed,  it  is  a very  different  affair,  and  you 
are  not  acquainted  with  our  partitions.” 

“ We  will  make  ourselves  acquainted  with  them  this  very  evening,” 
•aid  Joseph  with  an  assumption  of  superiority,  which  was  not  with- 
out its  influence  on  the  auditors,  who  were  grouped  around  him.” 

“ Let  us  see,”  said  Consuelo.  “ Take  us  to  the  church,  let  some 
one  blow  the  organ,  and  if  we  do  not  play  it  to  your  satisfaction,  you 
can  always  refuse  your  assistance.” 

“ But  the  partitions,  which  is  the  master-piece  of  Gottlieb’s  ar- 
rangements ? ” 

“ We  will  call  upon  Gottlieb,  and  if  he  do  not  declare  him  satisfied 
with  U3,  we  give  up  all  our  pretensions.  Besides,  a wounded  finger  will 
not  prevent  Gottlieb  from  marshalling  his  choir,  and  singing  his  own 

part.” 

The  village  patriarchs,  who  had  collected  around  them,  now  held 
council,  and  resolved  on  trying  the  experiment.  The  ball  was  aban- 
doned ; the  canon’s  mass  was  a very  different  sort  of  affair  from  a 
dance. 

Haydn  and  Consuelo,  after  successfully  trying  their  hands  at  the 
organ,  and  singing  both  solos  and  duets,  were  admitted  to  be  very  tol- 
erable musicians,  in  the  absence  of  better.  Some  mechanics  indeed 
were  bold  enough  to  say  that  their  execution  was  superior  to  Gott- 
lieb’s; and  that  the  fragments  of  Scarlatti,  of  Pergolese  and  Bach, 
which  they  rehearsed,  were  equal  at  least  to  the  music  of  Holzbaiier, 
which  Gottlieb  adhered  to  exclusively.  The  curate,  who  had  come  to 
listen,  went  so  far  as  to  assert  that  the  canon  would  greatly  prefer 
this  music  to  that  with  which  he  was  ordinarily  regaled.  The  sacris- 
tan, who  did  not  agree,  shook  his  head  gloomily ; and  the  curate,  in 
order  to  avoid  giving  offence  to  his  parishioners, 'consented  that  these 
two  virtuosi , who  seemed  to  have  been  sent  by  Providence  to  their 
aid,  should  come  to  some  agreement  with  Gottlieb  to  play  the  accom- 
paniment to  the  mass. 

They  went  in  crowds  to  the  house  of  the  shoemaker,  who  showed 
them  his  hand  so  badly  swollen  that  no  one  could  imagine  him  capa- 
ble of  performing  his  functions  of  organist.  The  impossibility  was  far 
more  real  than  he  could  have  desired.  Gottlieb  was  endowed  with  a 
certain  degree  of  musical  intelligence,  and  played  tolerably  well  on  the 
organ ; but  spoiled  by  the  praises  of  his  townsmen,  and  the  half-mock- 
ing approbation  of  the  canon,  over-estimated  most  absurdly  both  his 
powers  of  execution  and  direction.  He  would  have  been  willing  that 
the  holiday  should  have  been  a total  failure,  and  that  the  patron  saint’s 
mass  should  be  deprived  of  music,  rather  than  that  his  own  place 
should  be  filled  by  two  wandering  players.  Nevertheless  he  was  com- 
pelled to  yield,  and  pretended  to  search  for  the  partition , but  he  was 
so  long  about  it,  that  the  curate  threatened  to  give  the  whole  manage- 
ment into  the  hands  of  the  tv  o young  artists,  before  he  could  be  in- 
duced to  find  it. 

Consuelo  and  Joseph  had  then  to  prove  their  science  by  reading  at 
eight  the  passages  which  passed  for  the  most  difficult  of  that  one  of 
Holabauer’s  six  and  twenty  masses  which  was  to  be  performed  on  the 
morrow.  That  music,  lacking  both  originality  and  genius,  was  at  best 
we’l  written  and  easy  to  catch,  especially  by  Consuelo,  who  had  master- 
ed many  more  difficult  trials.  The  auditors  were  wonder-struck;  and 


eOKfttJBLO. 


m 

Gottlieb,  who  grew  every  moment  more  morose  and  sullen,  declared 
that  he  had  a fever,  and  that  he  should  go  to  bed,  being  perfectly 
charmed  that  every  one  was  satisfied. 

The  voices  and  instruments  were  therefore  immediately  collected  in 
the  church,  and  our  two  little  extempore  chapel-masters  at  once  di- 
rected the  rehearsal.  All  went  well.  The  brewer,  the  weaver,  tne 
schoolmaster,  and  the  baker  of  the  village,  played  the  four  violins. 
The  choirs  consisted  of  the  children  with  their  parents,  good  peasants 
or  mechanics,  cool-witted,  full  of  attention,  and  eager  to  proceed. 
Joseph  had  already  heard  Holzbaiier’s  music  at  Menna,  where  it  was 
all  the  rage,  and  easily  mastered  it;  and  Consuelo,  taking  her  part  al- 
ternately in  the  parts,  led  the  choir  so  well,  that  the  artists  surpassed 
themselves.  There  were  two  solos,  however,  which  were  to  be  sung 
by  a nephew  and  a niece  of  Gottlieb’s,  his  two  favorite  pupils,  and  the 
best  singers  in  the  parish ; but  these  two  artists  did  not  make  their 
appearance,  on  the  pretext  that  they  were  perfect  in  their  parts,  and 
needed  no  rehearsal. 

Joseph  and  Consuelo  supped  at  the  house  of  the  curate,  where  an 
apartment  had  been  prepared  for  them.  The  worthy  curate  was  de- 
lighted, and  evidently  showed  how  much  he  looked  forward  to  the 
excellence  of  the  mass  for  to-morrow,  and  to  the  gratification  of  Mon- 
»ieur  le  Canon. 

On  the  following  day  the  whole  village  was  in  a bustle  long  before 
daybreak.  The  bells  rang  loud  and  long.  The  roads  were  full  of 
faithful  worshippers  hurrying  from  the  surrounding  country  to  share 
in  the  solemnities  of  the  occasion.  The  canon’s  carriage  drew  near 
majestically  slow.  The  church  was  dressed  up  in  all  its  best  orna- 
ments. Consuelo  was  much  amused  by  the  self-importance  of  every 
person  she  saw.  For  indeed  there  was  almost  as  much  vanity  and 
•elf-esteem  here  as  in  the  side-scenes  of  a theatre,  except  that  things 
passed  more  simply,  with  more  of  laughter,  and  less  of  indignation. 

Half-an-hour  before  the  mass,  the  sacristan  came  up,  frightened 
half  out  of  his  wits,  and  revealed  to  them  a base  plot  which  they  had 
discovered,  the  planning  of  the  jealous  and  perfidious  Gottlieb. 
Having  learned  that  the  rehearsal  had  been  excellent,  and  that  all  the 
musical  force  of  the  parish  were  enchanted  with  the  new  comers,  he 
now  pretended  to  be  very  sick,  and  forbade  his  nephew  and  niece 
from  leaving  the  head  of  his  bed ; so  that  they  should  neither  have 
Gottlieb’s  presence,  which  the  people  fancied  indispensable  to  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  whole,  nor  the  solos,  which  were  the  finest  part  of 
the  mass.  All  the  performers  were  disconcerted,  and  it  was  with 
great  pains  that  the  important  sacristan,  who  believed  himself  a great 
judge,  succeeded  in  gathering  them  in  the  church  to  council.  Consu- 
elo and  Joseph  hurried  to  meet  them,  made  them  go  over  again  all 
the  difficult  parts,  encouraged  those  who  were  the  weakest,  and  in- 
spired all  with  confidence  and  energy.  As  to  the  solos,  they  soon 
agreed  to  undertake  them  in  person.  Consuelo,  on  reflection,  easily 
remembered  a religious  piece  of  Porpora*s  which  was  perfectly  adapted 
to  the  tone  and  words  of  the  solo  required.  She  hastily  wrote  it  out 
on  her  knee,  and  rehearsed  it  with  Haydn,  who  was  soon  ready  to 
accompany  her.  She  then  thought  of  a fragment  of  Sebastian  Bach, 
which  he  already  knew,  and  which  they  arranged  as  well  as  they 
could  for  the  occasion  between  themselves. 

The  bells  rang  for  the  mass  while  they  were  yet  rehearsing,  and 
they  came  to  a perfect  harmony  in  spite  of  the  din  of  the  great  belt 


CONSUKLO, 


8T6 


When  Monsieur  the  Caaon  made  his  appearance  at  the  altar,  the 
choir  was  all  in  full  swing  and  was  running  through  the  figures  of 
the  German  composer  with  a steadiness  and  unison  waich  gave  great 
promise.  Consuelo  felt  a real  pleasure  in  observing  the  good  German 
proletaries,  with  serious  faces,  their  correct  voices,  their  methodical 
manner,  and  their  powers  never  failing,  because  never  pressed  beyond 
a certain  limit.  “ Those,”  said  she  to  Joseph,  “ are  exactly  the  mu 
sicians  suited  to  music  such  as  this.  If  the  performers  possessed  the 
fire  which  the  master  lacked,  all  would  go  wrong;  but  they  have  it 
not;  and  pieces  mechanically  composed  are  the  best  rendered  when 
mechanically  rendered.  Why  have  not  we  the  illustrious  maestro 
Hoditz-Roswald  here,  to  drill  these  machines?  He  would  worry 
himself  vastly,  do  no  good,  and  be  the  happiest  man  on  earth.” 

The  solo  for  the  male  voice  disturbed  these  good  people  very 
greatly,  but  Joseph  acquitted  himself  wonderfully  well  ; but  when 
Consuelo’s  turn  arrived,  her  Italian  manner  first  astonished  them, 
then  scandalised  them  not  a little,  and  at  last  filled  them  with  enthu- 
siasm. The  cantatrice  took  pains  to  sing  her  best,  and  the  large  and 
sublime  expression  of  her  song  transported  Joseph  to  the  seventh 
heaven. 

“ I cannot  believe,”  said  he  44  that  you  ever  sang  better  than  you 
did  to-day  for  this  poor  village  mass.” 

44  At  all  events  I never  sang  with  more  pleasure  to  myself.  This 
audience  is  much  more  agreeable  to  my  sympathies  than  that  of  the 
theatre.  Now  let  me  look  at  the  pulpit  and  see  if  Monsieur  the  Canon 
ia  well  pleased.  Yes!  he  looks  perfectly  happy,  the  worthy  canon, 
and  by  the  way  In  which  every  one  looks  to  his  features  to  find  his 
reward,  assures  me  that  the  only  One  of  whom  no  person  thinks  here, 
la  He  whom  all  ought  to  adore.” 

44  Except  you,  Consuelo  1 Divine  faith  and  love  alone  are  capable 
of  inspiring  accents  like  yours.” 

When  the  two  artists  came  out  of  church  little  was  wanted  to  make 
the  people  carry  them  in  triumph  to  the  curate’s  house,  where  an  ex- 
cellent breakfast  was  in  readiness  for  them.  The  curate  presented 
them  to  the  canon,  who  loaded  them  with  praises,  and  expressed  a 
desire  to  hear  Porpora’s  solo  again,  after  luncheon.  But  Consuelo, 
who  was  astonished  that  her  female  voice  had  not  been  discovered, 
and  who  dreaded  the  canon’s  eye,  excused  herself  “bn  the  pretext  that 
her  rehearsals,  and  the  active  part  she  had  taken  in  all  the  exercises, 
had  greatly  tired  her.  But  the  excuse  was  not  accepted,  and  they 
were  obliged  to  appear  at  the  canon’s  breakfast.  The  canon  was  a 
man  of  fifty,  of  a handsome  and  pleasing  countenance,  although  a 
little  inclined  to  fat.  His  manners  were  distinguished,  even  noble; 
nor  was  he  slow  to  tell  every  one  in  confidence,  that  he  had  rcyal 
blood  in  his  veins,  being  one  of  the  four  hundred  natural  children  of 
Augustus  II.  Elector  of  Saxony  and  King  of  Poland. 

He  showed  himself  affable  and  gracious,  as  a man  of  the  world  and 
a high  ecclesiastic  should  be,  and  Joseph  remarked  by  his  side  a lay- 
man whom  he  treated  at  once  with  distinction  and  familiarity,  and 
whom  Haydn  remembered  to  have  seen  in  Vienna,  though  he  could 
not  fit  his  face  with  his  name. 

44  Well,  my  good  boys,”  said  the  cancn,  44  and  so  you  refuse  me  a 
second  hearing  of  that  theme  of  Porpora’s.  Here,  however,  is  a 
friend  of  mine,  much  more  a musician  and  a hundred  times  a better 
Judge  of  music  than  I,  wl  o was  very  much  struck  with  your  perform* 


60H8UBL0. 


m 

•nee.  Since  yon  are  tired,”  he  added,  turning  to  Joseph,  * I wffl  no! 
torment  you  any  farther;  but  you  must  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  your 
name,  and  where  you  have  learned  music.” 

Joseph  knew  at  once  that  Consuelo’s  solo  was  attributed  to  him, 
and  as  an  expressive  glance  from  her  made  him  understand  that  she 
wished  him  to  confirm  the  canon  in  his  mistake,  he  replied  shortly, 
“ My  name  it  Joseph,  and  I studied  at  the  music-school  of  St.  Ste- 
phen’s.” 

M So  did  I,”  said  the  stranger.  “ I studied  at  the  music  school  un- 
der Reuter,  the  father — you,  I presume,  under  the  son.” 

“ Yes,  monsieur.” 

“ But  you  have  had  subsequent  lessons ; you  have  studied  in  Italy, 
have  you  not  ? ” 

“ No,  monsieur.” 

“ Was  it  you  who  played  the  organ?  ” 

“ Sometimes  I— sometimes  my  companion ! ” 

“ And  who  sang  ? ” 

“ Both  of  us.” 

“ Well,  but  that  theme  of  Porpora’s.  It  is  not  you  who  sang  that?  * 
said  the  stranger,  looking  sideways  at  Consuelo. 

“ Bah ! it  is  not  that  child,”  said  the  canon,  also  looking  at  Consuelo* 
“ He  is  too  young  to  know  how  to  sing  so  well.” 

“ Of  course  it  is  not  I — it  is  he  ” — she  replied  abruptly,  pointing  to 
Joseph.  She  was  anxious  to  get  rid  of  these  questions,  and  looked 
impatiently  toward  the  door. 

w Why  do  you  tell  a falsehood,  my  child  ? ” said  the  curate  simply. 
“ I heard  you  sing  yesterday,  and  saw  you  too ; and  I recognised  your 
companion’s  organ  in  the  solo  of  Bach.” 

* No,  no  1 you  must  be  mistaken,  Monsieur  Curate,”  resumed  the 
stranger,  with  a shrewd  smile,  “ or  else  the  young  man  must  be  ex- 
traordinarily modest.  At  all  events,  we  must  give  them  high  praises, 
the  one  and  the  other. 

Then  drawing  the  curate  aside,  “ You  have  a true  ear,”  he  said, 
“ but  you  have  not  a penetrating  eye.  It  does  honor  to  the  purity  of 
your  character.  But  still  you  must  be  undeceived.  That  little  Hun- 
garian peasant  is  an  exceedingly  able  Italian  singing  girl.” 

“A  woman  disguised!”  cried  the  curate  in  astonishment.  He 
looked  attentively  at  Consuelo,  who  was  engaged  in  replying  to  the 
good-humored  questions  of  the  canon,  and  whether  it  was  shame, 
pleasure,  or  indignation,  he  blushed  crimson  from  his  skull-cap  to  hi* 
oands. 

“ It  is  as  I tell  yon,”  replied  the  stranger ; ‘‘lam  trying  to  think 
who  she  can  possibly  be ; I do  not  know  her ; and  as  to  her  disguise 
and  the  humble  position  in  which  she  now  is,  I can  only  attribute 
them  to  some  freak.  It  must  be  a love  affair,  Monsieur  Curate,  which 
is  no  business  of  ours.” 

“Ah!  a love  affair,  indeed ! very  well,  indeed,  as  you  say,”  cried 
the  curate  becoming  very  animated ; an  abduction,  a criminal  intrigue 
with  this  young  man.  All  this,  however,  is  very  atrocious  I and  I who 
fell  into  the  trap ! I who  lodged  them  in  my  curacy ! Luckily,  I gave 
them  separate  rooms,  and  I trust  there  has  been  no  scandal  in  my 
house.  What  an  adventure ; and  how  the  free  thinkers  of  my  pariah 
— and  there  are  two  or  three  such,  I assure  you — would  laugh  at  my 
expense  if  they  knew  it.” 

* If  none  of  your  pariah  loners  knew  that  she  was  a wcman  by  her 


CON  S U ELOi 


877 

voice  I,  is  very  little  probable  that  I have  recognised  her  by  her  fear 
tnres  or  deportment.  Look,  however,  what  pretty  hands  she  has, 
what  silky  hair,  what  a small  foot,  in  spite  of  her  coarse  shoes.” 

* I will  not  look  at  anything  of  the  kind,”  cried  the  curate,  quite  be- 
side himself.  “ It  is  an  abomination  to  dress  herself  as  a man. 
TTiere  is  a verse  in  the  Holy  Bible  which  condemns  to  death  any 
man  or  woman  guilty  of  assuming  the  dress  of  the  opposite  sex. 
To  death  l Do  you  hear,  monsieur?  That  shows  clearly  the  enor- 
mity of  the  sin ! with  that  too,  she  has  presumed  to  enter  the  church, 
and  impudently  dared  to  sing  the  praises  of  the  Lord,  her  soul  and 
body  stained  alike  by  the  commission  of  such  a crime.” 

M And  most  divinely  she  did  sing  them ; the  tears  came  into  my  eye* 
as  1 listened,  for  I never  heard  anything  like  it  in  my  life.  Strange 
mystery  l Who  can  this  woman  ,)e?  All  those  of  whom  I can 
think  are  much  older  than  she.” 

“ She  is  a mere  child — quite  a young  girl,”  cried  the  curate,  who 
could  not  help  looking  at  Consuelo  with  a feeling  of  interest  which 
conflicted  in  his  heart  with  the  austerity  of  his  principles.  “ Oh ! the 
little  serpent ! See  with  how  gentle  and  modest  an  air  she  replies  to 
the  questions  of  M.  le  Canon.  Ah,  I am  a lost  man,  if  any  one  here 
should  ever  discover  the  deceit.  I should  have  to  leave  the  country.” 

“ What ! did  neither  you  yourself,  nor  any  one  of  your  parishioners, 
even  suspect  that  her  voice  was  a woman’s  ? Of  a truth,  you  must  be 
a very  simple  audience.” 

“ What  would  you  have?  We  certainly  perceived  something  very 
extraordinary  in  the  voice,  but  Gottlieb  said  that  it  was  an  Italian 
voice,  that  he  had  already  heard  several  others  like  it,  that  it  was  a 
voice  of  the  Sistine  Chapel — I don’t  know  what  that  means,  and  I was 
a thousand  miles  from  suspecting  any  thing.  What  must  I do,  mon- 
sieur ? What  must  I do  ? ” 

“ If  no  one  has  any  suspicion,  my  advice  to  you  is  to  say  nothing  at 
all  about  it.  Get  rid  of  the  boys  as  quickly  as  you  can.  I will  arrange 
to  get  rid  of  them  for  you  if  you  wish  it.” 

“Oh!  yes.  You  will  do  me  the  greatest  service;  see  here,  I will 
give  you  the  money — how  much  ought  I to  pay  them?” 

* This  is  not  my  part  of  the  business.  We  pay  artists  liberally;  but 
your  parish  is  not  rich,  and  the  church  is  not  forced  to  do  as  the 
theatre  does.” 

“ I will  do  things  liberally.  I will  give  them  six  florins.  I will  go 
and  get  it  at  once.  But  what  will  Monsieur  the  Canon  say.  He  does 
not  seem  to  have  perceived  anything  as  yet.  See  how  paternally  he 
is  talking  with  her  ; the  holy  man.” 

“ Frankly ! do  you  believe  that  he  would  be  much  scandalized  ? ” 

“ How  should  he  fail  to  be  so  ? However,  it  is  not  so  much  his  rep- 
rimands as  his  raillery  that  I fear.  You  know  how  fond  he  is  of  a 
joke.  He  has  so  much  wit — oh,  how  he  will  mock  my  simplicity.” 

w But  if  he  partakes  in  your  error,  as  he  seems  to  do  so  far,  he  will 
have  no  right  to  quiz  you.  Come,  do  not  seem  to  take  any  notice ; 
let  us  loin  them,  and  you  can  take  your  own  time  to  get  rid  of  your 
musicians.” 

They  quitted  the  embrasure  of  the  window  in  which  they  had  been 
thus  conversing,  and  the  curate  gliding  alongside  of  Joseph — who 
did  not  appear  to  engross  the  canon  nearly  so  much  as  the  Signor 
Bertoni-— slipped  the  six  fibrins  into  his  hand.  So  soon  as  he  had  re- 
ceived that  moderate  sunt  Joseph  made  a sign  to  Consuelo  to  get  rid 


S78 


CONSUELO. 


of  the  canon  and  to  follow  him  out;  but  the  canon  called  Joseph  back, 
and  persi8tingin  the  belief  that  it  was  he  who  had  the  female  voices 
asked  him,  “ Why,  I pray  you,  did  you  choose  that  piece  of  Porpora’s 
music,  instead  of  singing  M.  Holzbaiier’s  ? ” 

“ We  had  not  Holzbaiier’s,  and  did  not  know  it,”  replied  Joseph. 
“ I sang  the  only  thing  which  I had  studied,  that  remained  complete 
in  my  memory.” 

The  curate  then  hastily  related  Gottlieb’s  trick,  and  that  bit  of  ar- 
tistical  jealousy  made  the  canon  laugh  heartily. 

“Well!”  said  the  stranger,  “your  good  shoemaker  did  us  a great 
service.  Instead  of  a very  bad  solo,  we  had  a masterpiece  of  a very 
f*reat  maestro.  You  showed  your  taste,”  he  added,  addressing  him- 
fjelf  to  Consuelo. 

“ I do  not  think,”  said  Joseph,  “that  Holzbaiier’s  solo  can  be  bad. 
What  we  sang  of  his  was  not  without  merit.” 

“Merit  is  not  genius,”  replied  the  stranger  with  a sigh,  and  theB 
pertinaciously  addressing  himself  to  Consuelo,  he  added,  “ What  do 
you  think  of  it,  my  young  friend?  Do  you  think  they  are  the 
»ame  ? ” 

“ No,  monsieur,  I do  not,”  answered  she,  coldly  and  laconically,  for 
the  look  of  the  man  embarrassed  and  annoyed  her  more  and  more 
svery  moment.” 

“ But  you  felt  pleasure  in  singing  that  mass  by  Holzbauer,  did  yon 
not?  ” asked  the  canon.  “ It  is  fine;  do  you  not  think  so?  ” 

“ I felt  neither  pleasure  nor  the  reverse,”  said  Consuelo,  who  was 
to  impatient  that  she  was  becoming  most  positively  frank. 

“ That  is  to  say,  it  is  neither  good  nor  bad,”  said  the  stranger 
laughing.  “ Well ! my  lad,  you  have  answered  me  very  well,  and  my 
opinion  agrees  with  yours.” 

The  canon  burst  into  a violent  fit  of  laughter,  the  curate  appeared 
to  be  very  greatly  embarrassed,  and  Consuelo  following  Joseph,  made 
her  escape  without  troubling  her  head  about  that  musical  difference. 

“ Well  I Monsieur  Canon,”  said  the  stranger,  as  soon  as  the  musi 
dans  had  got  out  of  the  room,  “ what  do  you  think  of  those  lads  ? ” 

“ Charming ! admirable ! I beg  your  pardon  for  saying  so,  after  the 
rub  the  younger  one  gave  you  just  before  leaving  the  room.” 

“ My  pardon  ? I think  him  adorable,  that  boy.  What  talents  for 
such  tender  years.  It  is  wonderful ! what  powerful  and  precocious 
natural  temperaments  these  Italians  have.” 

“ I can  say  nothing  for  the  talents  of  him  you  speak  of,”  said  the 
canon  quite  naturally.  “ I did  not  clearly  observe  it  It  is  his  com- 

S anion  whom  I think  really  wonderful,  and  he  belongs  to  our  nation, 
r it  may  so  please  your  Italian  mania.” 

“ Oh ! yes,”  said  the  stranger,  winking  his  eye  at  the  curate. 
u Then  it  was  decidedly  the  elder  who  sang  us  Porpora’s  music.” 

“ I presume  so,”  said  the  curate,  a good  deal  put  out  at  being  com- 
pelled to  vouch  for  such  a falsehood. 

“ For  me,  I am  sure  of  it,”  said  the  canon,  “ for  he  told  me  so  him- 
self.” 

“ And  your  other  solo,”  said  the  stranger,  “ that  must  then  have 
been  one  of  your  parishioners  who  sang  that  ? ” 

“ I suppose  so,”  answered  the  curate,  forcing  himself  to  uphold  the 
imposture. 

Both  looked  at  the  canon  to  see  whether  he  was  their  dupe,  or 
whether  he  was  laughing  at  them  in  his  sleeve.  But  he  did  not  seem 


CONSUEIO, 


m 

to  entertain  such  a thought.  His  tran  ^uillity  reassured  the  curate^ 
and  they  began  to  speak  of  other  things.  But  at  the  end  c f a quarter 
of  an  hour,  the  canon  returned  to  the  subject  of  music,  and  wanted 
to  see  Joseph  and  Consuelo,  in  order,  as  he  said,  to  take  them  to  hi# 
country  seat,  and  hear  them  at  his  leisure.  The  curate  lost  his  head, 
and  stammered  out  incomprehensible  excuses.  The  canon  then  asked 
him  if  he  had  his  little  musicians  put  into  the  pot  to  make  up  the 
breakfast,  which  he  realty  thought  was  quite  good  enough  without. 
The  curate  was  in  agony.  The  stranger  came  to  the  rescue.  44  I will 
seek  them  out  for  you,”  he  said,  making  a sign  to  the  curate  that  he 
would  devise  some  expedient  or  other.  But  he  had  not  the  trouble 
to  do  so,  for  he  instantly  learned  from  the  servant  woman  that  the 
young  artists  had  set  off  across  the  fields,  after  generously  giving  her 
one  of  the  florins  which  they  had  received. 

“ What,  gone ! ” exclaimed  the  canon  greatly  dissatisfied.  44  I must 
send  after  them.  I must  see  them  again.  I must  hear  them — abso- 
lutely I must!” 

They  affected  to  obey  him,  but  they  took  no  particular  pains  to 
overtake  them.  Beside  which,  they  had  taken  their  line  as  straight 
as  the  crow  flies,  eager  to  evade  the  curiosity  which  threatened  them 
with  embarrassment.  The  canon  regretted  the  misunderstanding 
much,  and  was  a little  out  of  sorts  at  it. 

44  Heaven  be^thanked ! he  thinks  nothing  of  the  truth,”  said  the 
curate  to  the  stranger. 

44  Curate,”  replied  he,  r do  you  remember  the  story  of  a certain 
bishop,  who,  eating  meat  by  mistake,  one  Friday,  was  informed  of  his 
inadvertency  by  his  vicar.  4 Wretch  !*  cried  the  bishop,  4 could  he 
not  have  held  his  peace,  till  dinner  was  over.1  We  might  just  as  well 
have  allowed  Monsieur  le  Canon  go  on  deceiving  himself  to  his  heart’s 
content.” 


CHAPTER  LXXYL 

The  night  was  tranquil  and  serene ; the  full  moon  shone  through 
the  lustrous  atmosphere,  and  nine  o’clock  in  the  evening  was  striking 
on  the  clear  sonorous  bell  of  an  antique  priory,  when  Joseph  and 
Consuelo  having  vainly  endeavored  to  find  a bell  at  the  gate  of  the 
enclosure,  walked  round  and  round  that  silent  habitation,  in  the  hope 
of  making  themselves  heard  by  some  hospitable  ear.  But  it  was  all  in 
vain.  All  the  gates  were  locked,  not  a dog  barked,  not  a light  was  to 
be  seen  at  the  windows  of  this  lifeless  abode. 

44  This  must  be  the  palace  of  silence,”  said  Haydn,  laughing,  44  and 
had  not  the  clock  twice  repeated  in  its  slow  and  solemn  voice  the  four 
quarters  in  ut  and  in  si , and  the  nine  strokes  for  the  hour  in  sol , 1 
should  believe  the  place  abandoned  to  ghosts  and  night  owls.” 

44  The  country  around,”  said  Consuelo, 44  seems  an  absolute  desert ; ” 
for  she  was  very  tired,  and  this  mysterious  convent  had  something  of 
attraction  for  her  poetical  imagin  ition.  44  Even  if  we  must  sleep  in 
some  chapel,  I will  go  no  further ; let  us  try  to  enter  at  all  hazards, 
even  if  it  be  over  this  wall,  whi  jh  does  not  look  very  difficult  to 
climb,” 

44  Come  ” said  Joseph,  u I wil  give  you  my  hands,  on  which  to  set 


eOKStTBLd. 


889 

your  foot  as  you  clfmb,  and  when  once  you  are  on  the  top,  1 will  thr&9 
myself  over  quickly,  and  help  you  down.” 

No  sooner  said  than  done ; the  wall  was  a low  one,  and  two  minutes 
afterward,  our  young  trespassers  were  walking  with  audacious  trail* 
quillity  within  the  sacred  demesnes.  It  was  a fine  kitchen-garden 
kept  up  with  minute  pains.  The  fruit  trees,  trained  into  the  form  of 
fans  on  their  espaliers,  offered  to  every  comer  their  long  arms  loaded 
with  red-cheeked  apples,  and  golden  pears. „ Arbors  of  vines,  festooned 
on  arches,  bore,  suspended  like  so  many  chandeliers,  heavy  branches 
of  rich  grapes.  The  great  beds  of  vegetables  did  not  lack,  either,  their 
own  peculiar  beauty.  Asparagus  with  its  graceful  stalks  and  silky 
foliage,  all  sparkling  with  the  evening  dew  drops,  resembled  a forest 
of  LilKputian  pines  covered  with  a gauze  of  silver.  - Peas  climbed  in 
light  garlands  up  their  rods,  and  formed  long  cradled  alleys,  among 
which  the  little  hedge-sparrows,  not  as  yet  well  asleep,  chirruped  in 
low  murmurs.  Gourds,  proud  leviathans  of  this  wavy  sea  of  verdure, 
displayed  their  great  golden  orbs  among  their  large  dark  leaves. 
Young  artichokes,  like  so  many  little  crowded  heads,  arranged  them- 
selves around  the  principal  individual,  the  centre  of  the  royal  stock; 
melons  reposed  beneath  their  bell  glasses,  like  ponderous  Chinese 
mandarins  beneath  their  umbrellas;  and  from  each  of  these  glass 
domes,  the  reflection  of  the  moon  darted  forth  like  the  rays  of  a great 
blue  diamond,  against  which  the  blundering  moths  persisted  in  knock- 
ing their  heads  with  a ceaseless  humming. 

A hedge  of  rose-bushes  formed  the  line  of  demarcation,  between  the 
kitchen-garden  and  the  flower-garden,  which  touched  the  buildings, 
and  surrounded  them  with  a girdle  of  flowers.  This  garden  was  re- 
served like  a sort  of  elysium.  Fine  ornamental  shrubs,  overshadowed 
plants  of  rare  beauty  and  exquisite  fragrance.  The  sand  of  the  walks 
was  as  soft  to  the  feet  as  a carpet ; one  would  have  said  that  the  turf 
plats  had  been  combed  blade  by  blade,  so  regular  and  even  was  the 
sod.  The  flowers  stood  so  close  that  the  earth  could  not  be  seen,  and 
each  round  flower-bed  resembled  a large  basket. 

The  priory  was  a little  building  of  the  twelfth  century,  once  forti- 
fied with  battlements,  which  were  now  replaced  by  steep  roofs  of 
gray  slate,  the  towers  on  which  the  machicolles  and  bastizans  had 
been  suffered  to  remain  as  ornaments,  to  give  it  a striking  character, 
while  great  masses  of  ivy  broke  the  monotony  of  the  walls,  on  the 
unclothed  portions  of  which,  coldly  shining  in  the  moonlight,  the 
gray  and  uncertain  shadows  of  the  young  poplars  wavered  as  the 
night-wind  shook  them.  Great  wreaths  of  vine,  to  conclude  the  pic* 
ture,  mantled  the  cornices  of  all  the  doors  and  windows. 

“ This  dwelling  is  calm  and  melancholy,”  said  Consuelo.  “ But  it 
does  not  inspire  me  with  so  much  sympathy  as  the  garden.  Plants 
are  made  to  vegetate  in  their  places,  and  men  to  move  and  live  in 
society.  Were  I a flower  I should  desire  to  grow  in  this  garden,  it  is 
the  place  for  flowers ; but  being  a woman,  I should  not  desire  to  live 
in  a cell,  and  to  shut  myself  up  alive  in  a mass  of  gray  stones. 
Should  you  like  to  be  a monk,  Beppo  ? ” 

“ Not  I,  God  keep  me  from  it ! But  I should  wish  to  live  beyond 
the  care  of  considering  my  daily  food  and  lodging.  I should  desire  to 
live  a peaceful  and  retired  life,  somewhat  at  my  ease,  never  distracted 
by  poverty  or  want.  In  a word,  I should  desire  to  vegetate  as  it  were 
in  a sort  of  passive  regularity,  even  in  a depen  dent  state,  provided 
my  intelligence  were  left  free,  and  that  I had  a>  other  care  or  duty 
than  to  compose  music.** 


C0N8UEL0,  881 

* Were  it  so,  friend,  you  would  compose  tranquil  music  to  oonso* 
fuence  of  composing  it  tranquilly.” 
u And  wherefore  should  it  be  bad  on  that  account  ? What  is  more 
beautiful  than  calmness?  The  skies  are  calm,  the  moon  is  calm, 
those  flowers,  whose  peaceful  attitudes  you  love.” 

" Their  motionless  quiet  touches  me  only  because  it  succeeds  to  the 
undulations  which  they  borrow  from  the  breeze.  The  purity  of  the 
sky  would  not  charm  us  had  we  never  seen  it  blurred  by  the  storm. 
The  moon  is  never  more  glorious  than  when  she  wades  in  light 
through  angry  clouds.  Can  rest,  except  to  the  weary,  bring  any  real 
happiness?  Can  that  be  even  called  rest,  which  is  eternal?  No.  It 
is  annihilation,  it  is  death.  Ah  I had  you  inhabited,  as  I have  done, 
*ke  Giants’  castle,  for  months  in  succession,  you  would  be  Well 
assured  that  tranquillity  is  not  life.” 

“ But  what  do  you  call  tranquil  music?” 

“ Music  which  is  too  correct,  and  too  cold.  Beware  of  composing 
such,  if  you  would  avoid  fatigue,  and  the  cares  of  the  world.” 

As  they  spoke  thus,  they  had  arrived  at  the  base  of  the  walls  of  the 
priory.  A fountain  of  clear  water  spouted  out  of  a marble  globe  sur- 
mounted by  a gilded  cross,  and  fell  down  from  bowl  to  bowd,  until  at 
last  it  reached  a large  granite  shell  in  which  a quantity  of  gold-fish 
played.  Consuelo  and  Beppo,  who  were  scarcely  more  than  children 
themselves,  were  diverted  at  watching  their  motions,  when  they  saw 
a tall  white  figure,  appearing  with  a pitcher  in  her  hand,  at  whose  ap- 
pearance they  were  at  first  somewhat  alarmed ; but  as  soon  as  she  dis- 
covered our  intruders,  which  she  did  not,  being  very  near-sighted,  un 
til  she  had  nearly  filled  her  pitcher,  she  dropped  it,  and  took  to  her 
heels,  screaming  at  the  top  of  her  lungs,  and  invoking  the  Holy  Vir- 
gin and  all  the  saints. 

“ What  is  the  matter  now,  dame  Bridget?  ” cried  a man’s  voice 
from  the  interior  of  the  house.  “ Have  you  met  an  evil  spirit  ? ” 

M Two  devils,  or  rather  two  thieves,  are  standing  by  the  fountain,” 
replied  dame  Bridget,  joining  the  questioner,  who  showed  himself  on 
the  sill  of  the  door,  and  stood  there  a few  minutes,  uncertain  and  in- 
credulous. 

“ This  will  be  another  of  your  panics ! Is  it  likely  that  thieves 
should  come  to  attack  us  at  such  an  hour  as  this  ? ” 

“ I swear  to  you,”  she  replied,  “ that  there  are  two  black  figures  by 
the  fountain  yonder,  as  motionless  as  stones.  See,  you  can  mala 
them  out  from  here.” 

“ I believe  I do  see  something,”  cried  the  man,  attempting  to  talk 
big.  “ I will  call  for  the  gardener  and  his  two  big  lads,  who  will  soon 
take  order  with  these  fellows.  They  must  have  climbed  the  walls, 
for  I shut  all  the  doors  myself.” 

“ In  the  mean  time  let  us  shut  this,”  said  the  old  woman ; u and 
then  we  will  ring  the  alarm.” 

The  door  closed,  and  the  young  travellers  stood  doubting  what  they 
should  do.  To  fly  was  to  confirm  the  ill  opinion  already  formed  of 
them.  To  remain,  was  to  await  a violent  attack.  While  they  were 
vet  consulting,  a ray  of  light  streamed  through  the  chink  of  a shutter 
in  the  upper  story.  It  became  larger;  a crimson  curtain,  behind 
which  the  lamp  was  burning,  was  gently  lifted,  and  a hand  which 
showed  itself  white  and  dimpled  in  the  clear  moonlight  was  seen  at 
the  window,  lifting  the  fringes  of  the  curtain,  while  probably  an  un* 
•ten  eye  was  scrutinizing  their  every  movement  from  within. 


CONSUELO, 


SSI 

* All  that  we  can  do,”  said  Consuelo  to  her  companion,  * Is  to  shift 
Allow  me, — leave  the  words  to  me.  No.  Rather  take  your  violin  and 
play  me  any  ritornella  you  please  in  the  first  key  that  occurs  to  you." 

Joseph  obeyed,  and  Consue.o  began  to  sing,  improvising  both  the 
words  and  the  poetry,  a sort  of  rythmic  chaunt  in  German,  divided 
by  passages  of  recitation. 

•'  We  are  but  two  young  children  Innocent 
As  small,  as  weak,  as  tuneful  as  the  bird 
We  Imitate,  the  lovelorn  nightingale.” 

u Now  Joseph,”  she  whispered  aside,  “ a harmony  to  support  the 
feeitative.”  Then  she  resumed : — 

" Worn  by  fatigue,  dismayed  by  solitude 
Of  silent  night,  this  dwelling  we  descried. 

At  distance  empty  seeming;  and  presumed 
With  timid  feet  its  anxious  wall  to  scale.** 

• A harmony  in  la  minor,  Joseph,” — 

Then  in  a magio  paradise  we  stood. 

Full  of  rare  fruits,  boon  earth’s  delicious  gift; 

Hungered,  athirst,  if  but  one  smallest  frutt 
Be  missed  i*  the  espalier,  one  grape  i’  the  bunch, 

Let  us  be  hunted  hence,  with  shame  and  soon.** 

••A  modulation  to  return  in  ut  major,  Joseph,”— 

•*  And  now  they  threaten  us,  and  now  suspect, 

Tet  will  we  not  escape,  nor  yet  will  hide. 

As  who  have  done  no  wrong,  unless  to  climb 
The  walls  of  the  Lord’s  house  be  wrong. 

Yet,  when  the  question  is,  how  paradise 
To  scale,  aU  roads  are  good,  the  shortest  best.** 

Consuelo  concluded  her  recitative  by  one  of  those  pretty  canticles 
in  vulgar  Latin,  which  is  called  in  Venice  Latino  defrate>  and  which 
the  people  sing  at  night  before  the  Madonna.  When  she  had  finished, 
the  two  white  Hands  which  had  gradually^ advanced  during  the  sing- 
ing applauded  eagerly,  and  a voice,  which  did  not  sound  entirely 
•trail ge  to  her  ear,  cried  from  the  window — “ Welcome,  disciples  of  the 
muses,  enter,  enter.  Hospitality  invites  and  awaits  you.” 

The  young  people  drew  nigh,  and  a moment  afterward  a servant,  in 
a red  and  violet  livery,  opened  the  door  to  them  civilly.  “ I took  you 
for  robbers,  my  young  friends,  and  I beg  your  pardon  for  it,”  he  said 
laughing ; “ but  it  is  your  own  fault.  Why  did  you  not  sing  before  ? 
With  such  a passport  as  your  violin  and  your  voice,  you  could  not 
fall  of  a good  reception  from  ray  master.  Come;  it  appears  he  is  ac- 
quainted with  you  before.” 

As  he  spoke  thus,  the  civil  servant  had  ascended  a dozen  steps  of  , 
Very  easy  stairs  before  them,  all  covered  with  a soft  Turkey  carpet. 
Before  Joseph  had  time  to  ask  his  master’s  name,  he  had  opened  the 
two  leaves  of  a folding  door,  which  closed  noislessly  behind  them,  and, 
after  having  crossed  a comfortable  antechamber,  introduced  them  into 
a drawing-room  where  the  gracious  owner  of  this  happy  abode,  seated 
opposite  to  a fine  roast  pheasant,  between  two  bottles  of  old  golden 
wine,  was  already  beginning  to  digest  his  first  course  even  while  he 


CONBTTELO. 


881 


was  paternally  and  majestically  attacking  the  second.  On  his  return 
from  his  morning  walk  he  had  committed  himself  to  the  hands  of  his 
valet  to  restore  his  complexion.  He  had  been  shaved  and  powdered 
anew.  The  slightly  gray  curls  of  his  fine  head  were  daintily  rounded 
and  besprinkled  with  a shade  of  exquisitely  scented  powder.  His  well- 
shaped hands  rested  on  his  knees,  clad  in  black  satin  breeches  with 
gold  buckles.  Ilis  well-turned  leg,  of  which  he  was  a little  vain,  dec- 
orated with  a pair  of  very  transparent  violet  stockings,  well  pulled  up, 
rested  on  a velvet  cushion,  and  his  noble  corporation,  enveloped  in  an 
excellent  doublet  of  pure-colored  silk,  wadded  and  stitched,  reclined 
deliciously  in  a great  tapestry  arm-chair,  where  no  part  of  the  elbow 
saw  the  slightest  risk  of  encountering  an  angle,  so  well  was  it  stuffed 
and  rounded  on  every  side.  Seated  near  the  chimney,  which  blazed 
and  crackled,  behind  her  master’s  arm-chair,  dame  Bridget,  the  house- 
keeper, was  preparing  his  coffee  with  a sort  of  religious  care,  while  a 
second  valet — not  less  perfect  in  his  dress,  or  less  courteous  in  his 
manners  than  the  other — was  delicately  detaching  one  of  the  pheas- 
ant’s wings,  which  the  holy  man  awaited,  without  either  impatience 
or  anxiety. 

Consuelo  and  Joseph  bowed  deeply,  as  they  recognised  in  the  per- 
son of  their  benevolent  host,  monsieur,  the  major  canon,  and  jubilary 
of  the  cathedral  chapel  of  St.  Stephen,  before  whom  they  had  sung 
the  mass  on  the  previous  day. 


CHAPTER  LXXYn. 

Monsiettb  the  Canon  was  a man  as  comfortably  situated  as  any 
one  in  the  world  could  be.  At  the  age  of  seven  years,  thanks  to  royal 
protection  which  had  not  failed  him,  he  had  been  declared  at  the  age 
of  reason,  agreeably  to  the  canons  of  the  church,  which,  admit  that  al- 
though one  have  not  much  reason  at  that  age,  he  has  at  least  enough 
to  receive  and  enjoy  the  fruits  of  a benefice.  In  consequence  of  this 
decision,  the  young  priest  was  admitted  to  the  dignity  of  canon,  al- 
though the  natural  son  of  a king. — Still,  in  accordance  with  the  canons 
of  the  church — which  always  presumptively  accept  the  legitimacy  of 
a child  presented  to  a benefice  under  the  protection  of  royalty ; al- 
though other  articles  of  the  same  canons  insist  that  all  pretenders  to 
the  holding  of  ecclesiastical  benefices  must  be  the  issue  of  good  and 
lawful  marriages,  in  default  of  which  they  may  be  declared  incapable v 
not  to  say  unworthy , and  infamous , as  might  be  done  upon  occasion. 

A man  of  intellect,  a good  orator,  an  elegant  writer,  the  canon  had 
promised  and  still  promised  himself  that  he  would  write  a book  on 
the  rights,  privileges,  and  immunities  of  his  chapter.  Surrounded  by 
dusty  quartos  which  he  had  never  opened,  he  had  not  made  his  own 
book,  be  was  not  making  it,  he  was  never  likely  to  make  it  The  two 
secretaries  who  had  been  engaged  at  the  expense  of  the  chapter  to 
assist  him,  had  no  occupation  but  to  perfume  his  person  and  prepare 
his  table.  Much  interest  followed  his  book — it  was  expected  eagerly 
— a thousand  dreams  of  ambition,  of  revenge,  of  money,  were  built 
upon  the  power  of  his  arguments.  This  book,  which  had  no  exUV 
breads  gained  its  author  a reputation  for  perseverance,  ambi- 


884  CCNSUELO. 

lion,  and  eloquer.ce,  of  which  he  did  not  care  to  adduce  any  direct 
proofs.  Not  that  he  was  incapable  of  making  good  the  opinion  of 
nis  fellows,  but  that  life  is  short,  dinners  are  long,  the  cares  of  the 
loilet  are  indispensable,  and  the  far  niente  delicious ; in  addition  to 
which  our  canon  had  two  innocent,  although  insatiable  passions;  the 
one  for  horticulture,  the  other  for  music.  How,  then,  amid  such  a 
«rowd  of  occupations  should  he  have  found  room  to  attack  his  con- 
templated book?  Beside  all  this,  he  had  not  failed  to  discover  how 
pleasant  it  is  to  talk  of  a book  which  is  in  progress,  and  how  disagree* 
able  to  talk  of  one  which  is  completed. 

In  other  respects,  he  was  an  extremely  good-natured  churchman ; 
tolerant,  not  devoid  of  wit,  eloquent  and  orthodox  among  churchmen, 
good-humored,  full  of  anecdotes,  easy  of  access  in  the  world,  affable, 
cordial,  and  generous  with  artists. 

Our  young  travellers  were  therefore  received  by  him  with  the  most 
gracious  kindness. 

“ You  are  children,”  he  said,  “ full  of  talent  and  resources,  and  I 
am  much  pleased  with  you.  Moreover,  you  have  genius,  and  one  of 
you — which  I know  not— has  the  sweetest  and  most  touching  voice  I 
ever  heard  in  my  life,  "That  voice  is  a prodigy,  a treasure ; and  I was 
sorry  this  morning,  when  you  left  the  curacy  so  abruptly,  at  the 
thought  that  I never  should  see  you,  never  hear  you  again.  In  a 
word,  I lost  my  appetite;  I was  out  of  spirits,  absent.  The  fine 
voice  and  exquisite  music  seemed  to  be  permanently  infixed  in  my 
ears,  in  my  soul.  But  Providence,  ever  gracious  to  ihe,  has  brought 
you  back  to  me,  and  perhaps  your  own  good  hearts,  my  children, 
have  had  something  to  do  with  this,  for  you  must  have  perceived  that 
I can  understand  and  appreciate  you.” 

“We  are  bound  to  confess,  Monsieur  Canon,”  said  Joseph,  “ that 
chance  alone  brought  us  hither,  and  that  we  were  far  from  reckoning 
on  such  good  fortune.” 

“ The  good  fortune  is  mine,”  replied  the  amiable  canon ; “ and  you 
shall  sing  for  me — that  is,  not  now,  for  you  are  tired,  and  I dare  say 
hungry,  and  that  would  be  selfishness  on  my  part.  You  shall  sup 
first,  have  a good  night’s  rest  in  my  house,  and  to-morrow  we  will 
have  music ; yes ! music  all  day  long.  Andrew,  conduct  these  young 
people  to  the  offices,  and  take  every  possible  care  of  them ; But  no  1 
let  them  remain ; set  two  covers  for  them  at  the  end  of  my  table,  and 
let  them  sup  with  me.” 

Andrew  obeyed  his  orders  promptly,  and  even  with  a sort  of  good- 
humored  pleasure ; but  dame  Bridget  showed  a very  different  disposi- 
tion ; she  shook  her  head — hunched  up  her  shoulders,  and  grumbled 
between  her  teeth — “ Very  pretty  folk,  forsooth!  to  sit  at  your  table 
—nice  society,  truly,  for  a person  of  your  station  in  society  I ” 

“Hold  your  tongue,  Bridget!”  replied  the  canon  calmly.  “You 
are  satisfied  with  nothing  and  with  nobody;  and  when  you  see  any 
one  enjoy  a little  pleasure,  it  makes  you  rancorous.” 

Some  farther  wrangling  ensued— for  Bridget  answered  back,  and 
the  canon  disputed  with  her,  much  to  the  amazement  of  Consuelo, 
who  was  astonished  to  see  a man  of  such  station  condescending  to 
parley  with  his  own  servants,  and  to  enter  into  the  smallest  details  of 
the  cookery  and  the  service.  The  supper,  however,  was  exquisite  and 
abundant,  even  to  profusion ; and  at  the  end  of  the  repast  the  cook 
was  called  in,  gently  blamed  for  the  composition  of  some  dishea, 
affectionately  praised  for  others,  and  learnedly  instructed  aa  to  others 


CON  8TTXIO. 


885 


again,  m which  1 9 was  not  absolutely  perfect  Bui  at  dessert,  when 
be  had  given  his  housekeeper  also  her  share  in  his  praises  and  repri- 
mands, the  canon  did  not  forget  to  pass  from  these  graver  questions 
to  the  subject  of  music;  and  soon  showed  himself  in  a far  better  light 
to  his  young  guests.  He  had  received  a good  musical  education,  a 
foundation  of  sound  study,  just  ideas,  and  an  accurate  taste.  He  was 
a very  fair  organist,  and  having  sat  down  to  the  harpsichord  after 
dinner,  played  several  fragments  of  the  old  German  masters,  which 
executed  with  much  purity  of  taste,  and  according  to  the  good 
traditions  of  old  times.  Listening  to  these  was  a source  of  pleasure 
to  Consuelo,  and  very  soon,  having  found  a great  book  of  that  old 
music,  she  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves,  and  forgetting  both  her  own 
fatigue  and  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  requested  the  canon  to  play  her 
several  pieces— which  had  struck  her  eye — in  his  bold,  clear  style. 
The  canon  was  excessively  pleased  at  being  thus  listened  to.  The 
music  which  he  played  was  no  longer  the  fashion,  and  he  seldom  met 
with  amateurs  after  his  own  heart.  He  took,  accordingly,  a great 
fancy  to  Consuelo,  while  Joseph,  worn  out  with  fatigue,  had  fallen 
asleep  in  a treacherously  comfortable  arm-chair.” 

“ Truly,”  cried  the  canon,  in  a moment  of  enthusiasm,  “ you  are 
a most  happily  gifted  youth.  Your  precocious  judgment  announces  a 
marvellous  hereafter.  This  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I ever  have 
regretted  the  celibacy  which  my  life  imposes  upon  me.” 

This  compliment  made  Consuelo  both  blush  and  tremble,  for  she 
thought  he  had  discovered  that  she  was  a woman;  but  she  instantly 
recovered  herself  when  he  added — “Yes!  I regret  having  no  chil- 
dren, for  heaven  might,  perchance,  have  granted  to  me  a son  such  as 
thou,  who  would  have  been  the  pride  of  my  life,  even  if  Bridget  had 
been  its  mother.  But  tell  me,  my  young  friend,  what  think  you  of 
this  Sebastian  Bach,  whose  music  is  turning  the  heads  of  all  this  gen- 
eration of  savans  f Do  you  also  think  him  a prodigious  genius  ? I 
have  a volume  of  all  his  works  there,  which  I have  had  collected  and 
bound — because  one  must  have  everything,  but  I confess  to  you  that 
being  excessively  difficult  to  read,  I got  tired  of  attempting  it.  Be- 
sides which,  I have  but  little  time  for  music,  which  I snatch  from  more 
serious  occupatious.  Because  you  saw  me  somewhat  engaged  with 
my  housekeeper  about  the  little  cares  of  my  menage,  you  must  not 
imagine  that  I am  altogether  a free  or  happy  man.  I am  a slave,  on 
ffie  contrary,  to  an  enormous,  almost  frightful  work,  which  I have 
imposed  upon  myself.  I am  writing  a book,  on  which  I have  been 
engaged  about  thirty  years,  and  which  any  other  person  could  hardly 
have  composed  in  forty— a book  which  requires  incredible  s*udy,  late 
watching,  patience  that  can  surmount  everything,  and  the  deepest  ro» 
flection;  and,  in  truth,  I think  that  it  will  make  some  stir.” 

“ And  will  it  be  soon  finished?  ” asked  Consuelo. 

“ Not  yet,  not  yet!  ” replied  .the  canon,  desirous,  perhaps,  of  con- 
cealing from  himself  that  it  was  not  even  begun.  “ We  were  talking 
about  the  extreme  difficulty  of  Sebastian  Bach’s  music,  and  to  me, 
I confess  that  it  seems  to  me  a little  fantastical” 

“ I think,  nevertheless,  that  if  you  would  take  the  trouble  to  sur- 
mount your  repugnance,  you  would  come  to  the  opinion,  that  he  is  a 
genius  who  enkindles,  reproduces,  and  vivifies  all  science,  past  and 
present.” 

“ Well,”  replied  the  canon,  “ if  it  be  so,  we  will  try  ail  three  of  m 
to  decypher  something  of  it  to-morrow.  It  is  time  now  that  you 


eo9susi,a 


■hould  take  tome  rut  and  that  I should  go  to  my  studies.  But  to* 
morrow  you  will  pass  the  day  w th  me,  That  is  understood:  it  ft 
not?” 

44  The  dayl — that  is  saying  a good  deal,  monsieur.  We  are  in  great 
haste  to  reach  Vienna,  but  in  the  morning  we  shall  be  at  your  ser- 
vice.” 

The  canon  protested  and  insisted,  and  Consuelo  pretended  to  yield, 
though  inwardly  determined  to  hurry  over  a little  the  slow  move^ 
raents  of  the  great  Bach,  and  to  leave  the  priory  about  noon.  When 
it  was  time  to  talk  of  going  to  bed,  a warm  discussion  arose  between 
dame  Bridget  and  the  first  valet-de-chambre,  concerning  the  quality 
of  lodgings  to  be  assigned  to  them — the  obliging  man-servant  wishing 
to  accommodate  them  with  comfortable  rooms  in  obedience  to  his 
master’s  wishes — the  housekeeper  wanting  to  put  them  in  some  mis- 
erable cells  on  the  ground-floor,  which  discussion  was  not  brought  to 
a close  until  the  canon  himself,  who  had  overheard  from  his  dining- 
room, all  that  was  passing,  put  an  end  to  it,  and  summarily  silenced 
Madam  Bridget. 

After  our  travellers  had  taken  possession  of  their  pretty  dormitories, 
they  long  heard  the  harsh  voice  of  the  ill-tempered  old  woman  grum- 
bling like  a wintry  wind  through  the  hollow  corridors.  But  when  the 
bustle,  which  harbingered  the  solemn  retiring  of  the  canon,  had 
ceased,  dame  Bridget  came  a-tip-toe  to  the  door  of  her  young  guests, 
and  adroitly  turned  the  key  in  each  lock,  so  as  to  fasten  them  securely 
in.  Joseph,  who  had  never  before  in  all  his  life  slept  in  such  a bed, 
was  already  buried  in  deep  slumber ; and  Consuelo,  after  laughing  at 
Bridget’s  terrors,  followed  his  example.  The  idea  that  she,  who  had 
trembled  every  night  of  their  journey,  should  now  inspire  terror  to 
another,  seemed  in  itself  absurd,  and  she  might  well  have  applied  to 
herself  the  fable  of  the  frogs  and  the  hare ; but  it  would  be  too  bold 
to  affirm  that  Consuelo  had  ever  heard  of  the  fables  of  la  Fontaine; 
although  at  this  period,  all  the  wits  of  the  world  were  at  issue  on 
their  merits.  Voltaire  made  fun  of  them,  and  Frederick  the  Great, 
who  desired  to  ape  his  philosophy,  despised  them  from  the  bottom  of 
his  heart. 


CHAPTER  LXXVIIL 

At  break  of  day,  Consuelo,  seeing  that  the  sun  shone  brightly  and 
feeling  herself  invited,  by  the  merry  warbling  of  the  birds,  who  were 
already  making  good  cheer  in  the  gardens,  to  take  an  early  walk,  arose 
and  tried  to  leave  her  chamber,  but  the  night-watch  was  not  yet  re- 
moved, and  Bridget  still  held  her  prisoners  safe  under  lock  and  key 
Consuelo  thought  at  first  that  this  must  be  some  ingenious  stratagem 
on  the  canon’s  part,  who,  in  order  to  secure  their  musical  services, 
had  begun  by  making  sure  of  their  persons.  But  the  young  girl,  who 
bad  become  bold  and  active,  sine**  she  had  donned  the  male  attire, 
saw  that  a descent  from  the  wind'o  v would  be  rendered  very  easy  by 
a large  vine  which  was  supported  by  a massive  trellis  against  the  wall 
of  the  building.  Descending  hen  slowly  and  with  precaution,  in 
order  to  avoid  injuring  the  fin  grapes,  she  easily  reached  the  ground, 
■fid  hurried  away  into  the  garden,  laughing  vrthin  herself  at  the  §**• 


COH8CELO.  SS? 

fete  and  disappointment  of  Bridget,  when  she  should  find  all  het 
precautions  useless. 

Consuelo  now  saw  all  the  superb  fruits  'and  sumptuous  flowers, 
which  she  had  so  much  admired  by  moonlight,  under  a different  as- 
pect. The  breath  of  the  morning,  and  the  laughing  rosy  tints  of  the 
sun,  gave  a new  poetry  to  those  fair  productions  of  the  earth.  A robe 
of  lustrous  velvet  covered  the  fruits,  the  dew  hung  in  pearls  of  crys- 
tal on  all  the  branches,  and  the  turf-plats,  overlaid  with  silver,  ex- 
haled that  slight  refreshing  odor  which  resembles  the  aspiring  breath 
of  earth  striving  to  mount  toward  heaven,  and  blend  with  it  in  loving 
unison.  But  nothing  could  equal  the  fresllness  and  the  beauty  of  the 
flowers,  still  surcharged  with  the  humidity  of  the  night,  at  this  mys- 
terious hour  of  dawn,  when  they  expand  their  petals,  as  if  to  display 
treasures  of  purity,  and  to  outpour  the  most  exquisite  of  odors,  which 
the  earliest  and  purest  sunbeams  are  alone  worthy  to  see  and  possess 
for  one  moment.  The  canon’s  parterre  was  a paradise  of  delights  to 
a lover  of  horticulture.  To  Consuelo’s  eyes  it  was  something  too 
symmetrical  and  formal.  But  the  fifty  varieties  of  roses — the  rare 
and  charming  hibiscuses,  the  purple  stocks,  the  ever-varying  gerani- 
ums, the  sweet-scented  daturas,  deep  opal  cups  impregnated  with  the 
ambrosia  of  the  gods,  the  elegant  asclepiades,  subtle  buds  of  poison, 
wherein  the  insect  race  find  a voluptuous  death ; the  spendid  cactuses 
displaying  glowing  crimson  hues,  on  strange  and  wrinkled  stems,  stud- 
ded with  angry  thorns,  a thousand  curious  and  beautiful  plants,  of 
which  Consuelo  had  never  heard  the  names,  any  more  than  she 
knew  the  countries  whence  they  came,  for  a long  time  occupied  her 
attention. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  fanciful  harmonies  of  that  delicious 
contemplation,  Consuelo  heard  loud  and  painfully  piercing  human 
cries,  appearing  to  come  from  a clump  of  trees  which  appeared  to 
conceal  the  external  walls.  To  these  cries  succeeded  the  roll  of  a 
carriage,  and  the  carriage  stopping,  loud  blows  were  struck  against 
the  iron  grate  which,  on  that  side,  closed  the  entrance  into  the  gar- 
den. But,  whether  all  the  world  was  still  asleep,  or  that  no  one  chose 
to  answer,  they  knocked  again  and  again  to  no  purpose,  and  the  ago- 
nizing shrieks  of  a woman,  intermingled  with  the  hoarse  oaths  of  a 
man  shouting  for  succor,  struck  the  walls  of  the  priory,  and  awakened 
no  more  echoes  from  those  senseless  stones  than  they  did  from  the 
hearts  of  the  inhabitants.  All  the  windows  on  that  side  of  the  house 
were  so  perfectly  caulked,  in  order  to  prevent  any  interruption  to  the 
canon’s  slumbers,  that  no  noise  could  penetrate  the  stout  oaken 
shutters,  padded  and  stuffed  with  horse  hair.  The  valets  were  en- 
gaged in  the  offices  behind  the  priory,  and  heard  nothing  of  the  din. 
Dogs  there  were  none  about  the  priory,  for  the  canon  loved  not  those 
troublesome  guardians,  which  under  the  pretence  of  keeping  rogues  at 
a distance,  disturb  the  slumbers  of  their  masters.  Consuelo  first  en- 
deavored to  get  into  the  house  to  give  notice  of  the  arrival  of  travel- 
lers in  distress,  but  all  was  so  well  closed  that  she  could  make  no  im- 
pression, and  following  her  first  impulse,  she  ran  to  the  grate  whence 
the  voice  came  to  her  ears. 

A travelling  carriage,  covered  with  luggage,  and  whitened  with  the 
dust  of  a long  journey,  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  principal  alley 
of  the  garden.  The  postilions  had  got  off  their  horses,  in  order  to 
knock  at  the  inhospitable  gate,  while  groans  and  lamentations  issued 
from  the  carriage  windows. 


888 


6G2Y8UBLO* 


* Open/*  shouted  the  men  to  Consualo.  4 Open,  if  ye  be  Club 
tlens  f There  is  a lady  dying  here.” 

44  Open,”  cried  a womaR,  whose  features  were  unknown  to  Consuelo, 
leaning  as  she  spoke  out  of  the  window,  and  using  the  Venetian  dia- 
lect. 44  Madam  will  die  if  she  be  not  promptly  aided.  Open,  then,  if 
ye  be  men.” 

Consuelo,  without  reflecting  on  the  results  of  her  previous  at- 
tempts, tried  to  open  the  gate,  but  it  was  closed  with  a huge  padlock, 
the  key  of  which  was  probably  in  dame  Bridget’s  pocket.  The  bell 
was  in  like  manner  protected  by  a secret  spring.  In  that  tranquil 
and  honest  country,  these  precautions  had  not  been  taken  against 
malefactors,  but  against  noise  and  the  annoyance  of  untimely  visits. 
It  was  impossible,  therefore,  for  Consuelo  to  do  what  she  most  desired, 
and  she  endured  with  pain  the  abusive  language  of  the  chamber- 
maid, who,  talking  to  her  mistress  in  Venetian,  kept  exclaiming — 
44  Oh!  the  little  idiot!— the  little  fool  does  not  know  how  to  open  the 
door,”  until  at  length  the  lady  herself  showed  her  head,  and  cried  out 
in  bad  German—44  Ha ! by  the  blood  of  the  devil ! do  go  and  get  some 
one  who  can  open  the  gate,  you  wretched  little  animal ! ” 

This  energetic  apostrophe  reassured  Consuelo  as  to  the  imminence 
of  the  lady’s  danger.  44  If  she  be  near  dying,”  said  she  to  herself, 44  it 
must  needs  be  a violent  death ! ” and  thinking  thus,  she  adressed  the 
lady,  whose  accent  was  clearly  Venetian  as  that  of  her  servant 
woman,  in  the  same  dialect. 

44 1 do  not  belong  to  this  house,”  said  she ; 44 1 only  received  hospi- 
tality here  for  last  night.  I will  go  and  try  to  awaken  the  owners, 
which  will  be  neither  quickly  nor  easily  done.  Are  you  in  such  dan- 
ger, madam,  that  you  cannot  wait  here  a short  time  without  despair- 
ing ? ” 

44 1 am  on  the  point  of  being  confined,  you  fool,”  cried  the  traveller: 
44  run,  scream,  break  every  thing,  bring  people  and  get  me  admitted 
here,  amd  you  shall  be  well  paid  for  your  trouble.”  And  she  began 
again  to  shriek  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  Consuelo  felt  her  knees 
tremble  under  her ; for  neither  the  face  nor  the  voice  of  the  woman 
was  unknown  to  her. 

44  What  is  the  name  of  your  mistress  ? ” she  asked  the  waiting  maid, 

44  What  is  that  to  you  ? ” cried  the  waiting-maid,  now  entirely  be- 
wildered. 44  Bun,  you  little  wretch,  or  you  shall  get  nothing  at  all 
from  us.” 

44  Ah ! ” I want  nothing  from  you,”  answered  Consuelo,  with  spirit, 
“ but  I want  to  know  who  you  are,  and  I will  know  it.  If  your  mis- 
tress is  a musician,  you  will  be  received  here  eagerly,  and  if  I am  not 
mistaken,  she  is  a celebrated  singer.” 

44  Go,  my  little  one,”  said  the  lady  within,  who,  in  the  intervals  of 
pain,  was  calm  and  collected. 

44  You  are  not  mistaken.  Go,  tell  the  people  who  live  here,  that  the 
celebrated  Corilla  is  at  the  door,  almost  dying,  unless  some  charitable 
person  or  good  artist  will  take  compassion  on  me.  I will  pay — tell 
her  that  I will  pay  largely.  Alas  I Sophia,”  said  she  to  her  maid, 
44  have  me  laid  on  the  ground ; I shall  suffer  less  by  the  roadside  than 
in  this  infernal  carriage.”  Consuelo  was  already  running  to  the  pri- 
ory, determined  at  all  hazards  to  obtain  access  to  the  canon ; and  she 
cou’d  not  even  find  room  for  wonder  at  the  strange  chance  which 
brought  her  rival  thither  in  such  a pass;  she  was  only  anxious  to 
mist  her;  but  she  had  no  occasion  now  to  knock,  for  the  found 


GOHBU1LO.  899 

Bridget,  at  length,  aroused  by  the  knocking,  followed  by  the  gardens 
and  valet-de-chambre. 

“ A fine  story,  truly ! ” she  said,  when  Consuelo  had  told  her  tM 
facts.  * Do  not  go,  Andrew,  do  not  stir  a foot,  gardener.  How  should 
a lady  have  set  out  on  a journey  at  such  a time  ? And  if  she  has,  is 
it  not  her  own  fault?  How  can  we  hinder  her  sufferings?  Let  her 
be  confined  in  her  carriage,  which  she  can  be  just  as  easily  as  with  us, 
who  have  no  idea  of  receiving  such  visitors.” 

This  discourse,  which  was  begun  for  Consuelo’s  benefit,  and  grum- 
bled the  whole  length  of  the  walk,  was  finished  to  Corilla’s  maid, 
through  the  gate,  and  while  the  travellers  were  exchanging  reproach- 
es, invectives,  and  even  abuse  with  the  ill-tempered  housekeeper,  Con- 
suelo had  entered  the  house,  hoping  to  succeed  with  the  goodness 
and  artistic  predilections  of  the  canon.  She  sought  in  vain  for  the 
master’s  apartment,  and  only  came  near  to  losing  herself  in  the  large 
rambling  building,  with  the  details  of  which  she  was  wholly  unac- 
quainted. At  last,  she  met  Haydn,  who  was  looking  for  her,  and  who 
told  her  that  the  canon  was  in  the  orangery.  They  went  thither  to- 
gether, and  found  the  worthy  man  coming  to  meet  them,  beneath  an 
arbor  of  jessamine,  with  a face  as  fresh  and  smiling  as  the  fine  autum- 
nal morning.  She  was  already  beginning  to  lay  before  him  the  case 
of  poor  Corilla,  when  Bridget,  appearing  quite  unexpectedly,  cut  her 
short  with  these  words : “ There  is  a vagabond  down  yonder  at  your 
gate,  a theatrical  singer,  who  says  she  is  famous  and  who  has  the  air 
and  tones  of  a low  drab.  She  says  she  is  in  child-birth,  cries  and 
swears  like  twenty  devils,  and  insists  on  being  confined  here.  See 
how  you  like  that.” 

The  canon  made  a gesture  of  disgust  and  refusal. 

u Monsieur  Canon,”  said  Consuelo,  “ whatever  this  woman  may  be, 
she  is  still  a woman — she  is  suffering,  her  life  is  perchance  in  danger, 
as  well  as  that  of  the  innocent  creature  whom  God  has  called  into 
this  world,  and  whom  religion  commands  you,  perhaps,  to  receive  into 
the  pale  of  Christianity.  You  will  not  allow  her  to  lie  at  your  door, 
groaning  and  in  agony.” 

“ Is  she  married  ? ” asked  the  canon,  coldly,  after  a moment’s  con- 
sideration. 

“ I know  not.  Perhaps  she  may  be ; but  what  matters  it.  God  has 
graced  her  the  happiness  of  becoming  a mother;  it  is  for  Him  alone 
to  judge.” 

“ She  told  me  her  name,  Monsieur  Canon,”  resumed  Bridget,  vio- 
lently, “ and  you  must  know  her,  you  who  are  on  terms  with  all  the 
actors  in  Venice.  Her  name  is  Corilla.” 

“ Corilla  1 ” cried  the  canon  “ Has  she  come  from  Venice  already  t 
She  has  a fine  voice,  I hear.” 

“ In  favor  of  her  fine  voice,  open  the  door  to  her.  She  is  lying  in 
the  dust  at  your  gate,”  said  Consuelo. 

“ She  is  a woman  of  evil  life,”  replied  the  canon.  u She  made  a 
great  scandal  at  Venice,  a year  since.” 

“ And  there  are  many  persons  who  envy  your  reverence  this  bene- 
fice, Monsieur  Canon.  Do  you  mark  me?  If  an  abandoned  woman 
were  to  be  confined  here,  you  are  undone — it  would  not  be  represen- 
ted as  a chance,  much  less  as  an  act  of  charity ! ” said  dame  Bridget 

These  words  made  a final  impression  on  the  canon.  He  laid  them 
up  in  the  sanctuary  of  his  prudence,  althoi^h  he  pretended  to  hav* 
scarcely  heard  them. 


m 


OONSCKLO, 


*Th*r«  ii he  said,  “ an  inn  within  a hundred  yarda,  let  the  iftde 

K thither.  She  will  find  all  that  she  requires  there,  and  will  be  touch 
tter  than  at  a bachelor’s  house.  Go  tell  her  so,  Bridget;  but  po- 
litely, very  pof.teiy.  Show  the  postilions  the  inn ; and  you,  my  chil- 
dren,” he  continued,  turning  to  Joseph  and  Consuelo,  “come  and  try 
one  of  Bach’s  fugues  with  me,  while  they  are  getting  breakfast  ready 
for  us.” 

“Monsieur  Canon  I”  cried  Consuelo,  deeply  moved,  “will  you 
abandon  her ? ” 

But  at  this  moment  the  canon  stopped  abruptly,  in  seeming  conster 
nation.  “Ah!”  he  exclaimed,  “here  is  my  finest  volkameria  dried 
up  and  dead.  I have  told  the  gardener  often  enough  that  he  did  not 
water  it  sufficiently.  The  rarest  and  most  inimitable  plant  in  my 
garden.  Go,  Bridget,  call  the  gardener,  that  I may  scold  him.” 

“ I will  go  first  and  send  the  famous  Corilla  about  her  business,” 
said  Bridget,  retiring. 

“And  do  you  consent  to  this?  Will  you  permit  this,  Monsieur 
Canon  ? ” cried  Consuelo,  indignantly. 

“ It  is  impossible  for  me  to  do  otherwise,”  he  replied,  in  a soft 
voice,  but  with  an  accent  which  denoted  a firmly  planted  resolution. 
“ I desire  that  I may  hear  no  more  about  it.  Come,  then,  I am  wait- 
ing to  hear  music.” 

“ There  is  no  more  music  for  you  here,”  answered  Consuelo,  ener- 
getically. “ You  are  not  capable  of  understanding  Sebastian  Bach, 
you  who  have  no  bowels  of  compassion.  Ah ! may  your  fruits  and 
flowers  perish!  May  the  frost  cut  your  jessamines,  and  kill  your 
finest  shrubs!  May  this  soil,  hitherto  so  fertile,  which  gives  you 
everything  in  profusion,  produce  nothing  for  you  now  but  brambles, 
for  you  have  no  heart,  and  avail  yourself  of  the  gifts  of  heaven,  re 
gardless  of  the  rites  of  hospitality.” 

As  she  spoke  thus,  Consuelo  left  the  canon  gazing  in  astonishment 
about  him,  as  if  he  really  feared  to  see  the  curse  of  heaven  called 
down  by  that  fiery  spirit,  alight  on  his  precious  volkamerias,  and 
cherished  anemones.  She  ran  to  the  grating  which  had  not  been 
opened,  scaled  it  without  hesitation,  and  followed  Corilla  to  the  mis- 
erable pot-house,  to  which,  under  the  title  of  inn,  the  canon  had  di- 
rected her. 


CHAPTER  LXXIX 

Joseph  Haydn,  who  was  by  tills  time  accustomed  to  surrender 
himself  to  the  sudden  impulses  of  his  comrade,  but  endowed  with  s 
calmer  spirit,  and  a more  reflective  character,  did  not  hesitate  to 
$bey  her,  but  he  first  went  to  fetch  their  knapsack  and  violin  with  its 
music,  the  bread-winner,  the  consoler,  and  the  joyous  companion  of 
their  route.  Corilla  was  laid  on  one  of  those  wretched  beds  common 
to  German  inns,  in  which  you  must  choose,  so  small  are  they, 
whether  your  head  or  feet  shall  be  exposed  beyond  the  end.  Un- 
luckily there  was  no  woman  in  the  hovel:  the  mistress  had  gone  on  a 
pilgrimage  to  a place  six  leagues  distant,  and  the  girl  of  the  house 
had  been  sent  to  drive  tne  cow  to  pasture.  An  old  man  and  a t oy 
were  keeping  house  and  more  alarmed  than  pleased  at  the  arriva 


CCNSUSLO. 


»W 


the  rich  travellers,  suffered  their  house  to  be  turned  upude  down 
without  seeming  to  think  of  the  mischief  that  might  be  done*  The 
old  man  was  deaf;  the  boy  had  been  sent  for  the  midwife  of  a neigh* 
boring  village,  at  least  a league  distant*  The  postilion®  were  much 
more  disturbed  about  their  horses,  which  had  nothing  to  eat,  than 
about  their  passengers;  and  she,  abandoned  to  the  care  of  her  maid, 
who  had  lost  her  head,  and  was  crying  nearly  as  loud  as  she  did  her- 
self, filled  the  air  with  her  outcries,  which  more  resembled  the  rav- 
ings of  a lioness  than  the  groans  of  a woman. 

Consuelo,  seized  with  terror  and  compassion,  resolved  that  she 
would  not  forsake  the  unhappy  creature. 

“ Joseph,”  she  said  to  her  companion,  “ return  to  the  priory,  even 
if  you  should  be  badly  received  there.  Tell  the  canon  to  send  hither 
linen,  bedding,  soup,  wine,  everything  in  short  which  a sick  person 
requires.  Speak  to  him  kindly  but  firmly,  and  promise  him,  if  neces* 
sary,  that  we  will  make  music  for  him  if  he  will  assist  this  unhappy 
woman.” 

Joseph  set  forth,  and  poor  Consuelo  remained  a spectator  of  the 
repulsive  scene  of  a woman,  without  faith  or  hope,  undergoing  the 
august  martyrdom  of  maternity,  with  blasphemy  and  imprecations. 
She  never  ceased  to  curse  her  destiny,  her  journey,  the  canon  and 
his  housekeeper — even  the  child  that  she  was  about  to  bring  into  the 
world — while  she  abused  her  maid  servant  to  such  a degree,  that  she 
rendered  her  utterly  incapable  of  rendering  her  any  service,  and 
drove  her,  in  tears,  into  the  next  room. 

At  times,  when  her  pains  ceased  for  a while,  recovering  her  spirits 
and  courage,  she  would  talk  quietly,  and  even  jest  with  Consuelo, 
whom  she  did  not  recognise,  and  then  again  she  would  burst  forth  into 
the  most  hideous  blasphemy.  “ Ah ! cursed,  thrice  accursed,  be  the 
father  of  this  child  1 ” and  as  fresh  pangs  would  seize  her,  she  tore 
her  neck-handkerchief  asunder,  and  seizing  Consuelo’s  arm  with  a 
gripe  that  left  the  impress  of  her  nails  in  the  flesh,  she  shrieked  out, 
“ Accursed ! accursed ! accursed ! be  the  vile,  infamous  Anzoleto  1 ” 

At  this  moment  Sophia  returned  into  the  chamber,  and  at  the  end 
of  a quarter  of  an  hour  Corilla  was  delivered  of  a girl,  which  the 
maid  wrapped  in  the  first  piece  of  clothing  she  could  lay  hands  on  in 
an  open  trunk.  It  was  a theatrical  mantle  of  tarnished  satin,  edged 
with  fringes  of  tinsel,  and  it  was  in  this  miserable  frippery  that  the 
pure  betrothed  of  the  noble  Albert  received  on  her  knees  the  child 
of  Anzoleto  and  Corilla. 

“ Come,  madam,  be  consoled,”  said  the  poor  serving  girl,  with  an 
accent  of  simple  and  sincere  good-nature.  “ It  is  all  over,  and  you 
have  got  a beautiful  little  girl.” 

“ Girl  or  boy,  little  care  I,  for  I am  in  pain  no  longer,”  said  Corilla, 
raising  herself  on  her  elbow,  without  looking  at  her  child.  “ Give 
me  a large  glass  of  wine.” 

Joseph  had  now  returned  from  the  priory,  bringing  everything  that 
a sick  person  could  require,  and  that  of  the  best,  so  that  she  had 
whatever  she  called  for  on  the  instant,  and  soon  afterward,  stretching 
herself  out  on  the  canon’s  comfortable  cushions,  she  fell  asleep,  with 
all  the  easy  abandonment  which  she  derived  from  her  iron  consti- 
tution and  her  soul  of  ice.  During  her  sleep  the  child  was  comforta- 
bly dressed,  and  that  done,  Consuelo,  who  felt  nothing  but  disgust  to- 
ward Corilla,  gave  the  babe  to  the  girl  of  the  inn,  who' had  returned, 
and  seemed  a good-natured  person;  then  calling  to  Joseph,  she  took 
» back  with  him  toward  the  nriory. 


89S  oosioBto. 

M I did  not  promise  the  canon,”  said  he,  as  thej  went  on  their  way 
u to  bring  you  back  to  the  priory.  He  seemed  ashamed  of  his  eon 
duct,  although  he  affected  to  be  very  much  at  his  ease.  In  spite  of  a 
little  selfishness,  he  is  a good  man  at  heart,  and  seemed  really  glad  to 
send  Corilla  whatever  was  necessary.” 

“ I will  recompense  the  good  canon  for  my  impetuosity,”  said  Con- 
■uelo.  “ For,  in  truth,  there  are  souls  so  hard  and  hideous,  that 
weak  minds  should  inspire  us  with  pity  only.” 

Far  from  being  angry,  the  canon  received  them  with  open  arms, 
forced  them  to  breakfast  with  him,  and  then  they  all  sat  down  to  the 
piano.  Consuelo  soon  made  him  understand  the  admirable  preludes 
of  the  great  Bach,  and  to  put  him  into  a thoroughly  good  humor,  she 
sang  to  him  all  the  finest  airs  she  knew,  without  endeavoring  to  con- 
ceal her  voice,  and  with  little  fear  of  his  observing  her  sex  or  age; 
for  the  good  canon  appeared  resolved  to  divine  nothing  which  should 
run  eennter  to  his  delight  at  listening  to  such  music.  He  was  truly 
a passionate  lover  of  music,  and  his  transports  had  a depth  and  sin- 
cerity which  could  not  fail  to  touch  Consuelo. 

“ You  are  a strange  child — a child  of  genius,”  cried  the  canon,  pat- 
ting Consuelo’s  brown  head  with  chaste  and  paternal  fondness. 
“ You  wear  the  livery  of  poverty,  who  ought  to  be  borne  aloft  in  tri- 
umph. Tell  me  who  you  are,  and  whence  have  you  learned  all  that 
you  know  ? ” 

“ From  accident  and  nature,  Monsieur  Canon.” 

“ Ah!  you  are  deceiving  me,”  said  the  canon,  slyly.  “ You  must  be 
a son  of  Cafarelli  or  of  Farinelli.  But  listen  to  me,  my  children,”  he 
added  with  a serious  but  earnest  air,  “ I will  not  have  you  leave  me. 
1 take  charge  of  you ; stay  with  me.  I have  fortune,  and  it  shall  be 
yours.  I will  be  to  you  what  Gravina  was  to  Metastasio.  It  shall  be 
my  happiness  and  glory.  Attach  yourself  to  me.  You  need  only  en- 
ter the  minor  orders ; I will  take  care  to  procure  some  snug  little 
benefices,  and  after  my  death  you  will  find  that  i have  some  savings, 
which  I have  no  idea  whatever  of  leaving  to  that  harpy  Bridget.” 

As  the  canon  uttered  these  words  Bridget  entered  suddenly,  and 
heard  what  he  said.  “ And  I,”  she  cried  in  a choking  voice,  and  with 
tears  of  rage — “ and  I intend  no  longer  to  serve  an  ungrateful  master. 
It  is  long  enough  already  that  I have  been  sacrificing  to  you  my  repu- 
tation and  my  youth.” 

“Your  reputation?  your  youth?”  interrupted  the  canon,  sneer- 
ingly,  without  being  in  the  least  put  out.  “ Ah,  you  flatter  yourself, 
my  poor  old  woman.  What  you  are  pleased  to  call  the  one  protects 
the  other.” 

“ Yes  hyes  1 ” she  replied,  “ sneer  as  you  will.  But  never  expect  to 
see  me  again.  I quit  a house  in  which  I can  establish  neither  decency 
nor  order.  Pay  me  my  wages ; I will  not  pass  the  night  under  your 
roof.” 

“Have  we  come  to  that?”  said  the  canon,  very  calmly.  “Well, 
Bridget,  you  give  me  great  pleasure,  and  may  you  never  regret  it.  I 
never  dismiss  any  one  from  my  service,  and  I believe  if  the  devil  were 
once  in  it,  I should  not  turn  him  out.  But  if  the  devil  wished  to  go, 
i am  so  good-natured  that  I should  not  hinder  him,  but  should  sing  a 
magnificat  to  his  departure.  Go  and  make  up  your  baggage,  Bridget, 
and  as  for  your  wages,  sum  them  up  yourself,  my  child.  Whatever 
you  want,  even  if  it  were  ail  that  i possess,  shall  be  yours,  if  you  will 
only  go  at  once.” 


eoHstrsLe. 


898 


• Oh,  Monsieur  Canon,”  exclaimed  Haydn,  who  was  not  unmoved 
by  this  domestic  scene,  44  you  will  greatly  regret  a serrant  so  much 
attached.” 

u She  is  attached  to  my  benefice,”  replied  the  canon,  44  and  for  my 
part,  I shall  only  regret  her  coffee.” 

44  You  will  soon  be  accustomed  to  doing  without  her  coffee,  Mon* 
lieur  Canon,”  said  Consuelo,  very  firm  and  stern,  44  and  you  are  doing 
well.  Be  silent,  Joseph, and  speak  for  her  no  more.  I will  say  it  out 
before  her,  because  it  is  the  truth.  She  is  evil-minded  and  hurtful  to 
her  master.  He  is  good ; nature  made  him  noble  and  generous,  but 
that  woman  renders  him  selfish.  She  checks  all  the  good  emotions 
of  his  soul,  and  if  he  keeps  her,  she  will  render  him  as  hard  and 
heartless  as  she  is  herself.  Pardon  me,  Monsieur  Canon,  for  speaking 
thus,  but  you  have  made  me  siug  so  much,  and  have  so  raised  my  en- 
thusiasm by  the  display  of  your  own,  that  I am  almost  out  of  my 
head.  But  believe  me,  I do  not  desire  your  fortune;  I have  noka 
wish — not  a want.  If  I desired  it,  I could  even  be  richer  than  you ; 
and  an  artist's  life  is  so  full  of  risks,  that  perhaps  you  will  survive  me, 
and  then  it  will  be  you  who  will  find  yourself  inscribed  on  my  will, 
in  gratitude  for  what  you  have  done  in  behalf  of  us  to-day.  To- 
morrow we  set  off,  perhaps  to  meet  no  more,  but  we  set  off  with 
hearts  full  of  respect,  of  gratitude,  and  of  love  foi  you,  if  you  discharge 
Madame  Bridget,  whose  pardon  I beg  of  you  for  this  plain  mode  of 
speaking.” 

Two  hours  afterward  the  dispossessed  queen  departed  from  the  pri- 
ory, after  having  subjected  it  to  not  a little  pillage.  This  the  canon 
affected  not  to  observe,  and  by  the  expression  of  supreme  content 
which  overspread  his  countenance,  Haydn  perceived  that  Consuelo  had 
done  him  a real  service.  She,  at  dinner,  to  prevent  his  feeling  the 
slightest  regret,  made  coffee  for  him  after  the  Venetian  fashion,  which 
is  the  best  in  the  world.  Andrew  immediately  set  himself  to  take  les- 
sons of  her,  and  the  canon  declared  that  he  had  never  sipped  better 
coffee  in  his  life.  They  had  music  again  in  the  evening,  after  sending 
to  enquire  after  Corilla,  who  was  already,  as  they  brought  word,  sitting 
up  in  the  arm-chair,  which  the  canon  had  sent  her.  In  the  evening, 
they  walked  in  the  garden,  by  the  light  of  a glorious  moon,  the  canon 
leaning  on  Consuelo’s  arm,  and  still  imploring  her  to  take  minor 
orders,  and  to  attach  herself  to  him  as  his  adopted  son. 

44  Beware,”  said  Joseph  to  her,  as  they  were  parting  at  the  doors  of 
their  chambers;  44  this  good  canon  is  becoming  a little  too  seriously 
taken  with  you.” 

44  Nothing  should  disquiet  us  while  travelling.  I shall  no  more  be- 
come an  abbe  than  I have  become  a trumpeter.  M.  Mayer.  Count 
Hoditz,  ani  the  canon  have  all  counted  without  a to-morrow. 


CHAPTER  LXXX 

Nevertheless,  Consuelo  had  retired  to  her  own  chamber,  with- 
out giving  Joseph  the  signal  for  departure  at  daybreak  for  which  he 
had  looked.  She  had  reasons  of  her  own  for  not  hurrying  her  depart- 
«i*  and  Joseph  was  content  to  await  them,  too  well  pleased  to  pass 


m 


OOH  STJSI6. 


a few  more  hours  in  so  pleasant  a house,  leading  the  jolly  canoaioa, 
Ife  which  he  found  so  agreeable.  Consuelo  permitted  herself  to 
sleep  nntil  late  in  the  morning,  and  did  not  appear  until  the  canon’s 
second  breakfast,  for  he  had  the  habit  of  rising  very  ear-y,  taking  a 
slight  and  dainty  repast,  walking  in  his  gardens  and  through  his  hot- 
houses, with  his  breviary  in  his  hand,  and  then  taking  a second  nap 
while  awaiting  a savory  breakfast  a la  fourchette. 

44  Our  neighbor,  the  travelling  lady,  is  very  well,”  said  he  to  our 
young  travellers,  as  soon  as  he  met  them.  “ I sent  to  enquire  after 
ner,  and  to  let  Andrew  serve  her  breakfast.  She  expressed  much 
gratitude  for  our  attentions,  and  as  she  is  about  to  set  off  this  very 
day  for  Vienna,  contrary  to  all  prudence,  she  begs  that  you  will  go 
and  see  her,  in  order  that  she  may  recompense  the  charitable  zeal 
you  have  shown  in  her  behalf.  Therefore,  my  children,  breakfast  as 
quickly  as  you  can,  and  then  go  to  her.  Doubtless  you  will  receive 
•ome  pretty  present  from  her.” 

“ We  will  breakfast  as  slowly  as  we  can,  Monsieur  Canon,  and  we 
will  not  go  to  see  the  sick  woman.  She  has  no  longer  need  of  us, 
and  we  have  no  need  of  her  presents.” 

44  Singular  boy  1 ” cried  the  canon,  in  astonishment.  44  Your  ro- 
mantic disinterestedness  gains  on  me  to  such  a degree  that  I shall 
never  be  able  to  part  with  you.” 

Consuelo  smiled,  and  they  sat  down  to  table.  The  breakfast  was 
delicious,  and  lasted  nearly  two  hours ; but  the  dessert  was  very  differ- 
ent from  what  the  canon  anticipated. 

44  Your  reverence,”  said  Andrew,  appearing  at  the  door.  44  Mother 
Bertha,  the  woman  of  the  inn,  has  brought  you  hither  a large  basket, 
on  behalf  of  the  lady  who  lay  in.” 

44  It  is  the  silver  I lent  her,  I suppose,”  said  the  canon : receive  it, 
Andrew,  it  is  your  affair.  The  lady,  then,  is  set  on  going  to-  day.” 

44  She  is  gone,  your  reverence.” 

44  Already  1 She  must  be  mad.  She  must  assuredly  wish  to  kill 
herself.” 

44  No,  Monsieur  Canon ; she  neither  wishes  to  kill  herself,  nor  will 
•he  kill  herself,”  said  Andrew. 

44  Well,  Andrew,  what  are  you  doing  there  with  so  ceremonious  an 
air?  ” 

44  Mother  Bertha  will  not  give  me  the  basket,  your  reverence ; she 
says  she  is  charged  to  give  it  into  your  hands  only,  and  she  has  some- 
thing to  say  to  you.” 

44  Well,  well;  it  is  a scruple  or  an  affectation,  at  having  received  a 
deposit.  Let  her  come  in,  and  we  will  get  it  over.” 

The  old  woman  entered,  and  with  many  curtseys,  deposited  upon 
the  table  a great  basket  covered  with  a veil.  Consuelo  moved  her 
hand  toward  it  quickly,  while  the  canon’s  head  was  turned  toward 
Bertha,  and  having  pulled  the  veil  a little  aside,  said  to  Joseph 
“ This  is  what  I expected.  This  is  the  cause  of  my  remaining  here. 
Yes;  I was  sure  of  it.  Corilla  was  certain  to  act  thus.” 

44  Well,  Mother  Bertha,”  said  the  canon,  at  the  same  time.  44  So 
you  have  brought  back  the  household  stuff  I lent  your  guest.  Good 
— good — but  I was  in  no  wise  in  anxiety  about  it,  and  I am  sure  none 
of  it  is  missing,  without  so  much  as  even  looking  at  it.” 

44  Your  reverence,”  replied  the  old  woman,  44  my  servant  girl 
brought  all  that,  and  I have  given  it  to  your  officers . Nothing  was 
missing,  and  I am  quite  easy  on  that  head;  but,  with  regard  to  this 


C O N S U E L 0.  895 

basket,  I was  sworn  to  deliver  it  to  yourself  only,  ai  d you  know  what 
It  contains  as  well  as  I.” 

“ I will  be  hanged  if  I do,”  said  the  canon,  moving  his  hand  care- 
lessly towards  the  basket.  But  his  hand  remained  as  if  struck  by  cat- 
alepsy, and  his  mouth  stood  half  open  with  surprise,  as  the  veil  was 
moved  and  partly  opened  from  within,  and  a little  child’s  hand,  rosy 
and  delicate,  showed  itself,  making  a vague  and  feeble  movement  to 
grasp  the  canon’s  finger. 

“ Yes,  indeed,  your  reverence,”  said  the  old  woman,  with  a smile  of 
confident  satisfaction,  “ here  it  is,  safe  and  sound,  only  wide  awake 
and  with  a resolute  determination  to  live.” 

The  canon  had  absolutely  lost  the  use  of  his  tongue  from  astonish- 
ment, and  the  old  woman  continued,  “ By  ’r  lady,  your  reverence 
asked  it  of  its  mother  to  bring  up  and  adopt ! The  poor  lady  had 
much  trouble  to  determine  on  doing  so;  but  at  last  we  told  her  that 
her  child  could  not  be  in  better  hands,  and  she  recommended  it  to 
Providence  as  she  gave  it  us  to  bring  to  you.  As  for  me,  she  paid  me 
very  well.  I ask  nothing,  and  am  very  well  satisfied  indeed.” 

“ Ah ! you  are  satisfied,  are  you?  ” cried  the  canon, in  a tragi-comic 
tone.  Well,  I am  charmed  to  hear  it.  But  now  be  so  good  as  to 
carry  away  both  the  purse  and  the  bantling.  Spend  the  one,  educate 
the  other.  It  does  not  concern  me  the  least  in  the  world.” 

“ I bring  up  the  child  1— Oh ! no,  indeed !— not  I,  your  reverence.  I 
am  too  old  to  take  such  a charge  on  myself  as  a new-born  babe. 
They  cry  all  night  long,  and  my  old  man,  deaf  as  he  is,  would  never 
consent  to  such  an  arrangement  as  that.” 

“ And  I— pray  how  am  I to  arrange  it?  Many  thanks,  forsooth! 
So  you  counted  upon  that,  did  you  ? ” 

“ Since  your  reverence  asked  the  mother  for  it,  I ” 

“It  is  an  atrocious  falsehood — a gipsy  trick!”  cried  the  canoi*, 
“ and  I doubt  not  you  are  the  confederates  of  this  sorceress.  Come 
— come — carry  away  the  brat,  give  it  to  the  mother,  keep  it  yourself, 
do  what  you  will  with  it,  I wash  my  hands  of  it.  It  you  want  to  get 
money  out  of  me,  you  can  have  it.  I never  refuse  money  even  to 
rogues  and  impostors ; it  is  the  only  way  by  which  to  rid  your  house 
of  them ; but  as  to  taking  a child  into  my  house,  as  for  me,  you  may 
all  go  to  the  devil ! ” 

“ Ah ! if  it  comes  to  that,”  said  the  old  woman,  very  decidedly,  “ I 
will  not  do  it,  so  may  it  not  displease  your  reverence.  I did  not  take 
charge  of  the  child  on  my  own  account.  As  to  being  her  confeder- 
ates, we  know  nothing  of  such  tricks,  and  your  reverence  must  be 
joking  when  you  accuse  us  of  imposture.  I am  very  much  your  rev- 
erence’s servant,  and  I am  going  home.  Wo  have  many  pilgrims  re- 
turning from  the  performance  of  a vow,  who  are  very  thirsty  souls.” 
The  old  woman  curtsied  several  times  as  she  was  going,  and  then 
returning  on  her  steps,  “ I was  on  the  point  of  forgetting,”  she  said, 
“ the  child  is  to  be  called  Angela  in  Italian.  Upon  my  word,  I for- 
get how  she  spoke  it.” 

“Angiolina — Anzoleta?”  asked  Consuelo. 

“ The  last— exactly  so,”  said  the  old  woman,  and  again  curtsying  to 
the  canon,  she  retired  quietly. 

“ Well,  what  do  you  think  of  this  trick?  ” asked  the  canon,  when 
ihe  was  gone. 

“ I think  it  perfectly  in  keeping  with  her  who  invented  it,”  said 
Omaueio,  taking  the  child,  which  was  beginning  to  grow  fre  trial,  out 


CONSUELO. 


896 

of  the  basket,  and  feeding  it  gently  with  a spoonful  or  two  of  milk, 
which  still  continued  warm  in  the  canon’s  china  cup. 

“ This  Corilla  is  a demon,  then,  is  she?”  asked  the  canon;  “do 
you  know  her  ? ” 

“ By  reputation  only ; but  now  I know  her  perfectly  well,  aLd  you 
also,  I think,  Monsieur  Canon.” 

“ And  it  is  an  acquaintance  of  which  I had  just  as  readily  be  free. 
But  what  are  we  to  do  with  this  poor  little  outcast?  ” he  added,  cast- 
ing a glance  of  pity  on  the  child. 

“ I will  carry  it,”  said  Consuelo,  “ to  your  gardener’s  wife,  whom  I 
saw  yesterday  nursing  a fine  little  boy  of  five  or  six  months  old.” 

“ Go  then,”  said  the  canon,  “ or  rather  ring  the  bell,  and  they  will 
call  her  hither.  She  will  tell  us  of  a nurse  in  some  neighboring  farm ; 
not  too  near,  however,  for  heaven  only  knows  the  injury  which  an 
evident  interest  in  a child  which  falls  from  the  clouds  into  his  house 
may  do  to  a man  of  any  mark  in  the  church.” 

“ Were  I in  your  place,  Monsieur  Canon,  I would  set  myself  above 
all  such  wretched  considerations.  I would  neither  anticipate  or  listen 
to  the  absurd  suppositions  of  calumny.  I would  live  in  the  midst  of 
fools  and  their  conjectures  as  if  they  had  no  existence.  I would  act 
as  if  they  were  impossible.  Of  what  use  else  were  a life  of  dignity 
and  virtue,  if  it  cannot  ensure  calmness  of  conscience  and  the  liberty 
of  doing  good  ? Lo ! your  reverence,  this  child  is  entrusted  to  you. 
If  it  be  ill  cared  for  out  of  your  sight,  if  it  languish,  if  it  die,  you  will 
never,  I think,  cease  to  reproach  yourself.” 

After  many  objections  on  the  part  of  the  canon,  whose  timidity  and  • 
apprehensions  of  public  opinion  warped  him  from  his  better  will,  and 
many  arguments  on  that  of  Consuelo,  the  latter  becoming  more  en- 
thusiastic and  energetic  as  the  former  began  to  yield,  the  point  was 
carried. 

“It  is  settled,  then,  your  reverence,”  said  Consuelo;  “you  will 
keep  Angiolina  in  your  own  house,  the  gardener’s  wife  will  nurse 
her,  and  hereafter  you  will  educate  her  in  religion  and  in  virtue.  Her 
mother  would  have  made  of  her  a very  devil ; you  will  make  of  her  a 
heavenly  angel.” 

“ You  do  what  you  will  with  me,”  said  the  canon,  moved  to  tender- 
ness, and  suffering  Consuelo  to  lay  the  child  on  his  knees ; “ we  will 
baptise  the  child  to-morrow.  You  shall  be  its  godfather.  Had 
Bridget  remained  here,  we  would  have  compelled  her  to  be  godmoth- 
er ; her  rage  would  have  been  amusing.” 

“As  to  Corilla’s  purse,  — aye,  indeed,  it  contains  fifty  Venetian 
sequins;  we  do  not  want  it  here.  I charge  myself  with  the  present 
expenses  and  the  future  fortunes  of  the  child,  if  it  be  not  reclaimed. 
Take  then  this  gold,  it  is  well  due  to  you,  for  the  singular  virtue  and 
the  great  heart  you  have  shown  throughout  all  this.” 

“ Gold  to  pay  my  virtue  and  the  goodness  of  my  heart ! ” cried  Con- 
§uelo,  waving  away  the  purse  in  disgust,  “and  Oorilla’s  gold  tool  the 
price  of  falsehood  and  of  infamy.  Ah  1 Monsieur  Canon,  it  sullies 
our  eyes.  Distribute  it  among  the  poor,  and  it  may  so  bring  good 
fortune  to  our  poor  Angiolina.” 

For  the  first  time  perhaps  in  his  life,  the  canon  scarcely  slept  a 
wink.  He  felt  a strange  emotion  and  agitation  within  himself.  His  head 
was  full  of  musical  tones,  of  melodies,  and  modulations,  which  a slight 
doze  interrupted  every  minute,  and  which,  when  at  a minute’s  end  he 
again  awoke?  he  sought  to  remember  and  re-connect,  without  wish- 


eOK8UBLO. 


897 


fog  to  do  *o.  and  as  It  were  in  his  own  despite,  without  the  pcwer  of 
doing  so.  After  waking  and  sleeping,  and  waking  again,  and  endeav- 
oring to  sleep  again,  a hundred  times  in  succession,  a luminous  idea 
struck  him.  He  arose,  took  his  writing  desk,  and  resolved  to  work 
upon  the  famous  book  which  he  had  so  long  undertaken,  but  never 
yet  commenced.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  consult  his  dictionary 
of  canonical  law  in  order  to  set  himself  right  on  the  subject;  but  he 
had  not  read  two  pages  before  his  ideas  became  confused,  his  eyelids 
grew  heavy,  the  book  slid  easily  down  from  the  desk  to  the  carpet,  the 
candle  was  put  dMt  by  a sigh  of  delicious  sleepiness,  heaved  from  the 
powerful  lungs  of  the  good  man,  and  he  slept  soundly  and  happily 
until  ten  o’clock  in  the  morning. 

Alas ! how  bitter  was  his  waking,  when  with  a listless  and  lazy 
hand,  he  opened  the  following  note,  which  Andrew  laid  upon  his 
waiter  beside  his  cup  of  chocolate. 

“ We  are  departing,  Monsieur  and  Reverend  Canon.  An  imperious 
duty  called  us  to  Vienna,  and  we  feared  our  inability  to  resist  your 
generous  solicitations.  We  are  flying,  as  though  we  were  ungrateful, 
but  we  are  not  so,  and  never  shall  we  lose  the  memory  of  your  hospi- 
tality toward  us,  and  of  your  sublime  charity  toward  the  deserted  child. 
We  will  come  to  thank  you  for  it.  Within  a week  you  will  see  us 
again ; deign  therefore  to  defer  until  then  the  baptism  of  Angiolina, 
and  to  count  on  the  respectful  and  tender  devotions  of  your  humble 
proteges,  “ Bebtoni,  Beppo.” 

The  evening  of  the  same  day  Consuelo  and  Joseph  enter  Vienna 
under  favor  of  the  darkness.  Keller,  the  worthy  wig-maker,  was  ad- 
mitted into  their  confidence,  received  them  with  open  arms,  and  paid 
the  utmost  attention  to  the  noble-hearted  girl  in  her  travelling  disguise. 
Consuelo  lavished  all  her  kindness  upon  Joseph’s  intended  bride, 
though  to  her  regret  she  found  her  neither  graceful  nor  pretty.  On 
the  following  morning,  Keller  braided  Consuelo’s  dishevelled  hair ; his 
daughter  aided  her  to  resume  the  apparel  of  her  sex,  and  showed  her 
the  way  to  the  house  in  which  Porpora  had  installed  himself. 


CHAPTER  LXXXI. 

To  the  Joy  which  Consuelo  felt,  as  she  clasped  in  her  arms  her  mas- 
ter and  benefactor,  succeeded  a sense  of  pain,  which  it  was  long  before 
she  could  subdue.  A year  had  elapsed  since  she  had  seen  Porpora  * 
and  that  year  of  uncertainty,  annoyance,  and  vexation  had  left  deep 
traces  of  age  and  distress  on  the  brow  of  the  master.  He  had  gained, 
moreover,  that  unhealthy  fatness  into  which  inaction  and  languor  of 
the  soul  often  cast  organizations  already  beginning  to  give  way.  His 
eye  had  still  its  wonted  brightness,  and  a certain  exaggerated  color  on 
his  cheeks  betrayed  fatal  efforts  to  acquire,  by  means  of  wine,  forget- 
fulness of  his  sorrows,  or  a return  of  inspiration,  discouraged  by  age 
and  disappointment.  The  luckless  composer  had  flattered  himself 
that  he  should  recover  at  Vienna  some  chances  of  patronage  and 
fortune.  He  had  been  rece*  ved  with  cold  esteem,  and  had  found  hii 


ttt  eoneuo. 

rivals,  more  fortunate  than  himself,  in  the  full  tide  of  tnxjrerlal  fhvoi 
and  of  public  admiration.  Metastasio  had  written  (llamas  tor  Cal*- 
dara,  fbr  Predieri,  for  Fuchs,  for  Reuter,  for  Hasse ; Metastasio,  the 
court  poet,  poeto  Cesareo , the  writer  of  the  day,  the  favorite  of  the 
muses  and  the  ladies,  the  charming,  the  precious,  the  harmonious,  the 
fluent,  the  divine  Metastasio;  in  one  word,  he  of  the  dramatic  cooks, 
whose  meats  had  the  power  of  creating  the  surest  appetite  and  the 
easiest  digestion,  had  not  written,  and  would  not  promise  to  write 
anything  for  Porpora.  The  maestro  it  might  be  had  still  ideas;  Ik 
had  certainly  science,  thorough  comprehension  of  voices,  fine  Neapoi 
itan  methods,  severe  taste,  expansive  style,  and  proud  and  mascu 
line  recitations,  the  powerful  and  pompous  beauty  of  which  never  has 
been  equalled;  but  he  had  no  public,  and  therefore  he  asked  in  vain 
for  a poem.  He  was  neither  flatterer  nor  intriguer;  his  somewhat 
rash  frankness  brought  enemies  upon  him,  ana  his  ill  humor  dis- 
gusted every  body. 

He  even  brought  this  last  disqualification  to  bear  on  his  reception 
of  Cons*ielo. 

“ And  why  have  you  left  Bohemia?  What  has  brought  you  hither, 
unlucky  child?”  he  said,  after  having  embraced  her  tenderly;— 
“hither,  where  there  are  neither  ears  nor  hearts  to  comprehend  you? 
There  is  no  place  for  you  here,  my  daughter.  Your  old  master  baa 
fallen  into  contempt;  and  if  you  would  succeed,  you  had  better  imitate 
the  rest.  Pretend  not  to  know  me,  or  to  despise  me,  like  all  those 
who  owe  me  their  talents,  their  fortune  and  their  glory.” 

“Alas!  and  do  you  doubt  me  too,  my  master?”  said  Consuelo, 
whose  eyes  filled  with  tears.  ‘ ‘ Would  you  deny  my  affection  and  de- 
votion, and  cast  back  upon  me  the  suspicion  and  the  scorn  which  oth- 
ers have  infused  into  your  soul ? Oh!  my  master!  you  shall  see  that  I 
do  not  deserve  this  outrage.  You  shall  see  it.  That  is  all  I can  say.” 
Porpora  frowned  darkly,  turned  his  back  upon  her,  walked  two  or 
three  times  up  and  down  the  room,  returned  to  Consuelo,  and  finding 
nothing  agreeable  to  say  to  her,  took  her  handkerchief  in  his  hands, 
drew  it  across  her  eyes  with  a sort  of  fatherly  rudeness,  saying,  “ Come, 
come  I ” Consuelo  saw  that  he  was  pale,  and  that  he  was  suppressing 
heavy  sighs,  by  exertion  of  his  chest,  but  he  contained  his  emotion, 
and  drawing  a chair  close  to  her — 

“ Come,”  he  said,  “ tell  me  about  your  sojourn  in  Bohemia,  and  tell 
me  why  you  came  away  so  suddenly.  Speak,”  he  added,  a little  impa- 
tiently ; “ have  you  not  a thousand  things  which  you  desire  to  tell  me  ? 
Did  you  get  tired  yonder,  or  did  the  Rudolstadts  treat  you  ill?  YesJ 
I dare  to  say  that  they  too  are  capable  of  having  wounded  and  tor- 
mented your  feelings.  God  knows  that  they  were  the  only  people  in 
the  world  in  whom  I would  have  placed  implicit  trust;  but  God 
knows  also,  that  all  men  are  capable  of  every  kind  of  evil.” 

“ Say  not  so,  my  friend ! ” replied  Consuelo. — “ The  Rudolstadts  are 
angels,  and  I ought  to  speak  of  them  only  on  my  knees.  But  I was 
bound  to  leave  them ; it  was  my  duty  to  f.y  from  them,  and  that  even 
without  letting  them  know  it,  or  taking  leave  of  them.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? Is  it  that  you  who  have  wherewithal  to  re- 
proach yourself  as  relates  to  them ; must  I blush  for  you,  and  blame 
myself  for  having  recommended  you  to  those  excellent  people  ? ” 
“Oh!  no!  no!  God  ba  praised,  no!  my  master.  I have  nothing 
with  which  to  reproach  myself,  and  you  have  nothing  at  which  to 
blush  for  me.” 


eoH  a t Bia 


899 


* What  Is  It,  then?  ’ 

Consuelo,  who  we.l  knew  how  necessary  It  was  to  give  sh«  t and 
prompt  answers  when  Porpora  was  giving  his  attention  to  any  fact  or 
idea,  related  to  him  briefly,  how  Count  Albert  wished  to  marry  her, 
and  how  she  could  decide  on  nothing  until  she  had  the  advice  of  her 
adopted  father. 

Porpora  grinned  with  rage  and  indignation. — “ Count  Albert,”  he 
eried,  u the  heir  of  the  Rudolstadts,  the  descendant  of  the  old  kings 
of  Bohemia,  the  lord  of  Kiesenberg ! He  marry  you,  the  little  gipsev  1 
the  ugly  one  of  the  school ; girl  without  a father ; the  comedian  with- 
out money  or  engagment  1 you,  who  have  begged  barefoot  in  the  cross- 
streets of  Venice  I” 

u Me,  your  pupil ! me,  your  adopted  daughter ! ” replied  Consuelo, 
with  an  air  of  quiet  pride ; “ Yes,  me,  la  Porporina ! ” 

u Splendid  dignity,  and  brilliant  condition ! In  truth,”  said  the  maes- 
tro with  a bitter  sneer,  “ I had  forgotten  that  part  of  the  nomenclature 
* — the  last  and  only  pupil  of  a master  without  a school ; the  future 
heiress  of  his  rags  and  his  dejection;  the  continuer  of  a name  already 
effaced  from  the  memory  of  men  I There  is  certainly  something  to 
boast  of  in  this — something  wherewith  to  turn  the  heads  of  young 
men  of  noble  birth  I ” 

u Apparently,  master  mine,”  said  Consuelo,  with  a melancholy  and 
caressing  smile;  “ we  have  not  fallen  so  low  in  the  opinion  of  noble 
men,  as  you  are  pleased  to  imagine;  for  it  is  certain  that  the  count 
wishes  to  marry  me,  and  I have  come  hither  to  ask  your  permission,  or 
your  protection.” 

u Consuelo,”  replied  Porpora,  in  a cold,  harsh  tone,  “ I hate  such 
absurdities  as  this.  You  ought  to  know  that  I detest  boarding-school 
romances,  and  coquettish  adventurers.  Never  would  I have  believed 
that  you  could  have  filled  your  head  with  such  balderdash.  You 
make  me  pity  you ; and  if  the  old  count — if  the  canoness — if  the 
Baroness  Amelia  are  informed  of  your  pretensions,  I say  it  to  you 
once  more,  I blush  for  you.” 

Consuelo  knew  that  it  would  not  do  to  contradict  the  master  when 
he  was  declaiming,  or  to  interrupt  him  in  the  full  swing  of  his  ora- 
tion; she  allowed  him,  therefore,  to  work  off  his  indignation,  and 
when  he  had  said  to  her  all  the  most  wounding  and  unjust  things  lit 
could  think  of,  she  related  to  him,  point  bypoini,  everything  that  had 
passed  at  the  Giants’  Castle,  between  herself,  Count  Albert,  Count 
Christian,  Amelia,  the  Canoness,  and  Anzoleto. 

u You  have  done  well  then,  Consuelo,”  said  Porpora  at  last ; “ you 
have  been  prudent,  you  have  been  good — you  have  been  strong,  as  I 
expected  you  to  be.  It  is  well.  Heaven  has  protected  you,  and  will 
recompense  you  by  delivering  you,  once  for  all,  from  that  insolent 
Anzoleto.  As  to  the  young  count,  you  must  not  think  of  him — I for- 
bid it.  Such  a fate  is  not  suitable  for  you.  The  Count  Christian  will 
never  permit  you  to  become  an  artist  again — rest  assured  of  that.  I 
know  better  than  you  do  the  indomitable  pride  of  these  nobles.  Now, 
unless  you  hold  illusions  on  that  subject,  which  I should  deem  child- 
ish and  senseless,  I do  not  think  you  can  hesitate  an  instant  between 
the  fortunes  of  the  great,  and  the  fortunes  of  a child  of  art.  Answer 
me— what  think  you  ? By  the  bvxly  of  Bacchus ! one  would  say  that 
you  do  not  understand  me.” 

“ I understand  you  very  well,  my  master,  and  I perceive  that  you 
4#  not  understand  one  word  that  I have  spoken  to  you,” 


m 


eoHfltr  b lo. 


“What  I hare  understood  nothing?  I can  understand  nothing 

any  longer  —is  not  that  what  you  mean  ? ” 

“ No,  you  have  not  understood  me,”  she  replied  very  firmly.  w For 
you  suppose  me  to  be  actuated  by  impulses  of  ambition,  which  hare 
never  entered  my  mind.  I do  not  envy  the  fortunes  of  the  great,  be 
assured  of  that,  my  master;  and  never  say  that  I suffered  the  consid- 
eration of  them  to  influence  my  opinions.  I despise  advantages 
which  are  not  acquired  by  our  own  merit.  You  educated  me  in  that 
principle,  and  I know  not  how  to  recede  from  it.  But  there  is  some- 
thing in  life  besides  vanity  and  wealth,  and  that  something  is  precious 
enough  to  counterbalance  the  intoxication  of  glory,  and  all  the  joys 
or  an  artist’s  life.  That  is  the  love  of  a man  like  Albert — that  is  do- 
mestic happiness — that  is  the  joys  of  a family.  The  public  is  a ca- 
pricious, tyrannical  and  ungrateful  master.  If  it  should  come  to  pass 
that  I can  love  Albert  as  he  loves  me,  I should  think  no  more  of  glory, 
and  probably  I should  be  the  happier  therefore.” 

“ What  absurd  language  is  this  ? ” cried  the  maestro.  “ Have  you 
become  a fool?  are  you  infected  with  German  sentimentality?  into 
how  deep  a contempt  of  art  have  you  fallen,  madam  countess!  But 
I will  lose  no  more  time  in  talking  to  a person  who  neither  knows 
what  she  says  nor  what  she  wishes.  You  have  no  common  sense, 
and  I am  your  most  obedient  servant.” 

And  with  these  words  Porpora  sat  down  to  the  piano-forte,  and  im* 
provised,  with  a firm,  dry  hand  several  scientific  modulations,  during 
which  Consuelo,  hopeless  of  bringing  him  back  to  the  subject  that 
day,  reflected  on  the  means  of  putting  him  into  a better  humor.  She 
succeeded,  by  singing  to  him  some  of  the  national  airs  which  she  had 
learned  in  Bohemia,  the  originality  of  which,  greatly  delighted  the 
old  maestro.  Afterward  they  dined  together  very  frugally,  at  a lit- 
tle table  near  the  window.  Porpora  was  poorly  lodged ; his  dull  and 
gloomy  apartment  looked  out,  always  itself  in  disorder,  on  the  angle 
of  a narrow  and  deserted  street.  Consuelo,  seeing  that  he  was  now 
in  a good  humor,  ventured  to  mention  Joseph  'H-aydn  to  him.  She 
told  him,  with  an  air  of  indifference,  how  she  had  met,  when  near  to 
Vienna,  a poor  little  devil,  who  had  spoken  of  the  school  of  Porpora 
with  such  respect  and  admiration  that  she  had  promised  to  intercede 
in  his  behalf  with  Porpora  himself. 

“ Ah ! and  what  is  he,  this  young  man  ? ” asked  the  maestro ; “ to 
what  career  does  he  aspire  ? To  be  an  artist,  I presume,  since  he  is  a 
poor  devil.  Oh ! I thank  him  greatly  for  his  patronage.  I will  teach 
no  one  to  sing  henceforth  who  is  not  the  son  of  a family.  People  of 
that  kind  pay  well,  learn  nothing,  and  are  proud  of  our  lessons,  be- 
cause they  fancy  that  they  know  something  when  they  have  passed 
through  our  hands.  But  artists  are  all  cowards,  all  ungrateful,  all 
liars  and  traitors.  Let  no  one  speak  to  me  of  them.” 

Consuelo  strove  in  vain  to  divert  him  from  these  ideas ; but  finding 
them  so  obstinately  fixed  that  there  was  no  hope  of  removing  them, 
she  leaned  a little  way  out  of  the  window  while  the  master’s  back 
was  turned,  and  made  two  successive  signs  with  her  fingers;  the  first 
was  to  indicate  to  Joseph,  who  was  waiting  in  the  street  for  that  pre- 
concerted signal,  that  he  must  abandon  all  hope  of  being  admitted  a 
pupil  of  Porpora ; the  other  told  him  not  to  make  his  appearance 
within  half  an  hour. 

Consuelo  then  talked  of  other  things,  to  make  Porpora  forget  what 
the  had  been  saying;  and  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Joseph  Knocked 


CON8UILO, 


401 


at  the  door.  Consuelo  opened  it — affecting  not  to  know  him — and 
returned  to  the  master,  saying  that  it  was  a servant  who  wanted  a 
place. 

“Let  us  see  your  face,”  cried  Porpora  to  the  trembling  youth; 
“who  told  you  that  I wanted  a servant?  I want  nothing  of  the 
kind.” 

“If  you  have  no  need  of  a servant,”  said  Joseph,  a good  deal  dis- 
concerted, but  keeping  up  a bold  countenance  as  Cousuelo  had  advised 
him  to  do,  “ it  is  very  unlucky  for  me,  monsieur,  for  I have  great  need 
<*f  a master.” 

“ One  would  suppose,  to  hear  you,  that  it  is  by  my  means  only  that 
you  can  earn  your  bread,”  replied  Porpora.  “ Do  you  think  I require 
a lackey  to  arrange  all  these  things  ? ” 

“Yes,  sir,  I do  indeed,”  replied  Haydn,  affecting  a sort  of  artless 
simplicity;  “ for  everything  is  very  much  out  of  order.” 

As  he  said  this  he  began  at  once  to  set  himself  to  work,  arrangh  g 
the  apartments  so  symmetrically  and  so  cold-bloodedly,  that  he  almost 
sat  Porpora  laughing.  Joseph  was,  in  fact,  playing  to  win  or  lose ; for, 
in  truth  if  his  zeal  had  not  pleased  the  maestro  he  might  well  have  got 
paid  by  a caning. 

“ Here  is  a queer  genius,  who  will  serve  me,  whether  I will  or  no ! ” 
said  Porpora,  watching  him.  “ I tell  you,  idiot,  that  I have  not  the 
means  of  paying  a servant.  Do  you  still  continue  so  eager  ? ” 

“ Oh ! as  for  that,  monsieur,  if  you  will  only  give  me  your  old  clothes, 
and  a morsel  of  bread  every  day,  I shall  be  very  happy.  I am  so  mis- 
erable, that  I should  be  happy  not  to  have  to  beg  my  bread.” 

“ But  why  do  you  not  enter  into  some  rich  family  ? ” 

“ It  is  impossible,  monsieur,  they  say  that  I am  too  little  and  too 
ugly.  Besides,  I know  nothing  of  music,  and  you  know  all  the  great 
noblemen  like  their  lackeys  to  know  how  to  play  a little  part  on  the 
flute  or  on  the  violin  when  they  have  music  in  their  rooms,  which,  as 
for  me,  I have  never  been  able  to  force  a note  of  music  into  my  head.” 
“Ah!  indeed,  you  know  nothing  of  music,  hey?  Well,  you  are 
Just  the  man  I want.  If  you  are  satisfied  with  food  and  old  clothes 
I will  take  you;  for,  now  that  I think  of  it,  my  daughter  will  want  i 
diligent  boy  to  run  on  her  errands.  Come,  what  can  you  do  ? BrusL 
clothes,  polish  shoes,  sweep  the  room,  open  and  shut  the  door  ? ” 

“ Yes,  monsieur,  I can  do  all  that.” 

“ Well  then,  begin.  Prepare  the  coat  which  is  lying  on  my  bed,  fo* 
I am  going  at  one  o’clock  to  the  ambassador’s.  You  shall  accompany 
me,' Consuelo.  I will  present  you  to  Monsieur  Korner,  whom  you 
know  already,  and  who  has  just  arrived  from  the  baths  with  the  sig- 
nora. There  is  a little  chamber  there  which  I give  to  you ; go  and 
make  a little  toilette,  while  I prepare  myself.” 

Consuelo  obeyed,  crossed  the  ante-chamber,  entered  the  small  dark 
cabinet  which  was  to  become  her  apartment  and  put  on  her  old  black 
frock  and  the  little  white  kerchief,  which  had  journeyed  with  her  on 
Joseph’s  back. 

“This  is  not  a very  pretty  toilette,”  thought  she  to  herself,  “in 
which  to  go  to  the  ambassador’s ; nevertheless  they  saw  me  begin  in 
the  same  way  at  Venice,  and  it  did  not  prevent  me  from  singing  well, 
and  being  listened  to  with  pleasure.” 

When  she  was  ready,  she  re-crossed  the  ante-chamber,  and  found 
Haydn  there,  gravely  employed  combing  out  Porpora’s  wig,  which 
itood  on  its  block.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  they  both  stifled  a 


402 


CONSUELO. 


laugh.  But  as  she  heard  Porpora  approaching,  Consuelo  becams 
quite  grave,  and  said  as  he  entered,  “ Come ! little  one,  make  haste ! " 


CHAPTER  L XXXII. 

It  was  not  to  the  Venetian  embassy,  but  to  the  Venetian  ambassa- 
dor’s  house,  that  is,  to  the  house  of  his  mistress,  that  Porpora  now 
carried  Consuelo.  Wilhelmina  was  a beautiful  creature,  infatuated 
with  music,  and  deriving  her  only  pleasure,  her  only  pretension,  from 
gathering  around  her  as  many  artists  and  dilettanti  as  she  could, 
without  compromising  the  diplomatic  dignity  of  Monseigneur  Komer 
by  too  public  a display.  At  the  appearance  of  Consuelo  she  uttered 
a tittle  cry  of  pleasure,  and  when  fully  satisfied  that  it  was  indeed 
Consuelo  whom  she  saw  before  her,  she  received  her  with  the  utmost 
affection  and  good  nature,  as  the  Zingarella,  the  marvel  of  Saint  Sam- 
uel’s in  the  last  year. 

She  had,  at  that  time,  mingled  her  voice  with  those  of  the  genuine 
dilettanti  to  celebrate  her  success,  and  if  she  had  spoken  in  an  aside 
against  the  pride~and  ambition  of  the  little  girl,  whom  she  had  known 
as  the  humblest  and  most  obscure  pupil  of  the  scuola,  and  who  after- 
wards refused  to  place  her  voice  at  the  disposal  of  Madame  the  Am* 
bassadress  in  an  aside,  and  absolutely  in  the  ear  of  the  listener. 

Now,  however,  when  she  saw  Consuelo  come  to  her,  in  the  same 
quiet  little  dress  she  had  worn  of  old,  and  when  Porpora  presented 
her  officially,  which  he  had  never  done  before,  vain  and  light  as  she 
was,  Wilhelmina  overlooked  all,  and  thought  she  was  playing  a part 
of  superb  generosity  when  she  kissed  the  Zingarella  on  both  cheeks. 
“ She  is  ruined,”  thought  she.  “ She  has  committed  some  folly ; or, 
perhaps,  she  has  lost  her  voice,  for  she  has  not  been  heard  of  this  long 
time.  She  comes  back  at  our  merciful  disposal ; now,  therefore,  is  the 
time  to  pity  her,  to  protect  her,  and,  if  possible,  to  bring  her  talents 
forward  to  her  advantage.” 

Consuelo’s  manners  were  so  gentle  and  conciliatory,  that  Wilhelmi 
na,  not  discovering  in  her  that  tone  of  haughty  prosperity  which  she 
had  fancied  to  belong  to  her  in  Venice,  felt  quite  at  her  ease  with  her, 
and  loaded  her  with  attentions.  Some  Italian  friends  of  the  ambas- 
sador’s united  with  her  in  almost  overpowering  Consuelo  with  praises 
and  with  questions,  which  latter  she  contrived  merrily  and  adroitly  to 
avoid.  But,  on  a sudden  her  face  became  grave,  and  shewed  a certain 
degree  of  emotion,  when,  in  the  midst  of  a group  of  Germans,  who 
were  looking  at  her  with  curious  eyes,  she  recognised  a face  which 
had  troubled  her  before.  It  was  the  stranger,  the  friend  of  the  canon, 
who  had  examined  her  and  questioned  her  so  closely  three  days  be- 
fore, at  the  house  of  the  village  curate,  where  she  had  sung  the  mass 
with  Joseph  Haydn.  The  stranger  was  now  scrutinizing  her  with 
deep  attention,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  tnat  he  was  questioning  those 
who  stood  near  him  as  to  who  she  was.  Wilhelmina  perceived  Con- 
suelo’s abstraction.  — “ You  are  looking  at  M.  Holzbaiier?  ” said  she. 
u Do  you  know  h m ? ” 

44  I do  not  know  him,”  said  Consuelo ; “ and  I was  ignorant  that  it 
m he  at  whom  I am  looking.” 


C0K8UKL0, 


405 

m He  Is  the  first  to  the  right  of  the  marble  slab,”  said  the  ambassa- 
ior’s  lady.  “ He  is  actually  director  of  the  court  theatre,  and  his  wife 
Is  the  first  cantatrice  of  the  same  theatre.  And  he  makes  a bad  use 
of  his  position,”  she  added,  in  a low  voice,  “ in  order  to  regale  tlu 
court  and  the  town  with  his  own  operas,  which,  between  ourselves, 
are  good  for  nothing.  Would  you  like  to  make  his  acquaintance;  he 
is  a very  gallant  person  ? ” 

“A  thousand  thanks,  signora,”  replied  Consuelo,  M am  of  too 
littleconsideration  to  be  presented  to  any  one:  and  I am  well  assured 
beforehand  that  he  will  not  engage  me  for  his  theatre.” 

“ And  wherefore  not,  my  dear?  Has  that  fine  voice,  which  had  not 
its  equal  in  all  Italy,  suffered  by  your  sojourn  in  Bohemia?  for  you 
have  lived,  as  they  tell  us,  all  this  time  in  Bohemia,  the  coldest  and 
saddest  country  in  the  world.  It  is  a very  bad  climate  for  the  chest ; 
and  I am  not  astonished  at  your  feeling  its  bad  effects ; but  you  will 
soon  recover  it,  under  the  influence  of  our  fine  Venetian  sun.” 
Consuelo,  seeing  that  Wilhelmina  was  determined  to  consider  the 
loss  of  her  voice  as  a settled  affair,  abstained  from  giving  any  further 
contradiction,  the  rather  that  Wilhelmina  had  herself  both  asked  the 
question  and  returned  the  answer.  She  did  not  torment  herself,  how- 
ever, at  all,  in  consequence  of  this  charitable  supposition,  but  only  on 
account  of  the  antipathy  which  she  was  sure  to  encounter  at  the 
hands  of  Holzbaiier,  in  payment  of  the  somewhat  abrupt  and  some- 
what over-sincere  observations  which  had  escaped  her  in  regard  to 
his  music  at  the  breakfast  at  the  parsonage.  And  Censuelo  much 
feared  that  this  adventure  might  reach  the  ears  of  Porpora,  and  en- 
rage him  against  herself,  and  yet  more  against  poor  Joseph. 

It  was  not  so,  however ; Holzbaiier  did  not  say  a word  of  the  adven- 
ture, for  reasons  which  come  to  light  hereafter ; and,  instead  of  show- 
ing the  least  animosity  to  Consuelo,  he  approached  her  and  addressed 
her  with  glances  full  of  real  malignity,  concealed  under  the  guise  of 
jovial  kindness.  She  did  not  dare  to  ask  him  what  was  the  secret  of 
these ; and,  let  the  consequences  be  what  they  might,  she  was  too 
proud  not  to  confront  them  with  tranquillity. 

She  was  diverted  from  this  incident  by  the  face  of  a harsh,  stern- 
looking  old  man,  who  nevertheless  showed  much  eagerness  to  keep  up 
a conversation  with  Porpora.  But  he,  still  faithful  to  his  usual  ill- 
humor,  scarcely  replied  to  him,  and  at  each  word  made  an  effort  and 
sought  a pretext  for  getting  away  from  him. 

44  That,”  said  Wilhelmina,  who  was  not  annoyed  at  having  H in  her 
power  to  give  Consuelo  a list  of  the  celebrities  which  crowded  her  sa- 
loon— “ that  is  an  illustrious  master — that  is  the  Buononcini.  He  has 
lately  arrived  from  Paris,  where  he  himself  played  a part  on  the  vio- 
loncello, in  an  anthem  of  his  own  composition,  before  the  king.  You 
know  that  it  is  he  who  has  been  so  long  the  rage  in  London,  and  who, 
after  an  obstinate  struggle  of  theatre  to  theatre  against  Handel,  has 
succeeded  in  conquering  him  at  the  opera.” 

“ Do  not  say  so,  signora,”  said  Porpora,  with  vivacity,  who  had 
just  got  rid  of  Buononcini,  and  overheard  Wilhelmina’s  words.  * Oh, 
say  not  such  blasphemy.  No  one  1 as  ever  conquered  Handel ! — no 
one  will  ever  conquer  him  1 I know  my  Handel,  and  you  know  him 
not  as  yet  He  is  the  first  among  us  all ; and  I confess  to  you,  that 
although  I had  the  audacity  to  strive  with  him  in  my  extreme  youth, 
I was  crushed.  It  necessarily  must  have  been  so.  It  was  just  that  it 
be  so.  Buononcini,  more  fortunate,  but  neither  more  modest 


404 


CdNSCHLO. 


nor  more  skiUfti/  than  I,  triumphed  in  the  eyes  of  foolSj  and  in  the 
•are  of  barbarians.  Do  not,  therefore,  believe  those  who  talk  to  yon 
of  such  a triumph  as  that.  It  will  be  the  eternal  ridicule  of  my 
fellow-artist  Buononcini ; and  the  English  will  one  day  blush  at  hav* 
ing  preferred  his  operas,  to  those  of  a genius,  of  a giant  such  as 
Handel.” 

Wilhelmlna  endeavored  to  defend  Buononcini,  and  contradiction 
having  excited' the  wrath  of  Porpora,  “ I tell  you,”  said  he,  without 
caring  whether  Buononcini  heard  him  or  not, — “ I tell  you,  I will 
maintain  that  Handel  is  superior  even  in  opera  to  all  die  men  of  the 
past  and  of  the  present  age.  I will  prove  to  you  immediately.  Sit 
down  to  the  piano,  Consuelo,  and  sing  us  the  air  which  I will  desig- 
nate to  you.” 

“ I am  dying  with  desire  to  hear  this  admirable  Porporina,”  replied 
Wilhelmina.  “ But*I  implore  you,  let  her  not  make  her  first  debut 
here,  in  presence  of  Buononcini  and  M.  Holzbaiier,  by  playing  the 
music  of  Handel.  * They  could  not  be  flattered  by  such  a selection — ” 

“ I know  that  very  well,”  said  Porpora,  “ it  is  their  living  condem- 
nation— their  sentence  to  death.” 

“ Well,  if  that  be  the  case,”  replied  she,  u make  her  sing  something 
of  your  own,  master.” 

“You  know,  without  doubt,  that  to  do  so  will  excite  no  person’s 
jealousy ! But  I desire  that  she  sing  Handel  I I will  have  it  so  I ” 

“ Master,  do  not  require  me  to  sing  to-day.  I have  just  arrived 
from  a long  journey ” 

“ Certainly,  it  would  be  merely  abusing  her  good  nature,  and  I am 
sure  I do  not  require  it  of  her,”  said  Wilhelmina.  “ In  presence  of 
the  judges  here  collected,  and  especially  of  M.  Holzbaiier,  the  director 
of  the  imperial  theatre,  it  would  be  compromising  your  pupil.  Be- 
ware what  you  are  doing.” 

“ Compromising  her — what  are  you  thinking  about  ? ” said  Porpora 
abruptly — “ have  I not  heard  her  sing  this  morning,  and  do  not  I 
know  whether  she  runs  any  risk  of  compromising  herself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  these  Germans  ? ” 

This  debate  was  fortunately  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  a new 
comer,  whom  all  the  world  made  haste  to  welcome,  and  Consuelo, 
who  had  seen  and  heard  this  sharp-voiced,  effeminate-looking  man, 
with  abrupt  manners  arid  a blustering  voice,  at  Venice  in  her  child- 
hood, although  she  now  saw  him  grown  old,  faded,  ugly,  ridiculously 
curled,  and  dressed  in  the  worst  taste,  like  a superannuated  Celadon, 
instantly  recognised  him,  so  deep  a memory  had  she  retained  of  the 
incomparable,  inimitable  sopranisto  majorano,  named  Caffarelli,  or 
rather  Caffariello,  as  he  was  called  everywhere  except  in  France. 

It  was  impossible  to  look  upon  a more  impertinent  coxcomb  than 
Caffariello ; the  women  had  spoiled  him  by  their  caresses — the  accla- 
mations of  the  public  had  turned  his  head.  He  had  been  so  hand- 
some ; or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  so  pretty  in  his  youth,  that  he  had 
made  his  appearance  in  Italy  in  female  parts ; but  now  that  he  waa 
running  hard  on  his  fiftieth  year,  and  he  even  seemed  older  than  ht 
in  truth  was,  as  is  frequently  the  case  with  sopranists,  it  was  difficult  to 
conceive  how  he  could  have  enacted  Dido  or  Galatea  without  a strong 
inclination  to  laugh.  To  make  up  for  the  effeminacy  of  his  peison,be 
gave  himself  great  s waggeri  lg  airs,  and  at  every  assertion  raised  his  clear 
soft  voice,  without  having  the  power  to  change  its  tones.  Neverthe- 
less, under  all  his  extravagancies  and  under  all  that  excess  of  vanity 


COX8UBLO. 


406 


CaffhrieGc  still  had  his  good  side.  He  felt  the  superiority  of  his  tal- 
ents too  much  to  be  amiable ; but  he  felt  also  the  dignity  of  his  posi- 
tion as  an  artist  too  highly  ever  to  sink  into  the  courtier.  He  held 
front  obstinately  and  madly  to  the  most  important  persons,  even  to 
sovereigns  themselves,  and  on  that  account,  he  was  odious  to1  the  low- 
bred flatterers  whom  his  impertinence  rebuked  so  severely.  The  true 
friends  of  art  pardoned  him  everything,  in  consideration  of  his  genius 
as  a virtuoso ; and  despite  all  the  acts  of  cowardice  which  were  laid 
to  his  charge  as  a man,  it  was  undeniable  that  there  were  many  fea- 
tures  worthy  of  remark  in  his  life — features  of  courage  and  generos- 
ity,' as  an  artist. 

On  entering,  Caffariello  bowed  very  slightly  to  the  whole  assembly, 
but  went  up  and  kissed  the  hand  of  Wilhelmina,  tenderly  and  respect- 
fully, after  which  he  addressed  Holzbaiier,  his  director,  with  the  man 
ner  of  a protector,  and  shook  hands  with  his  old  master,  Porpora,  with 
careless  familiarity.  Divided  between  indignation  at  his  manners,  and 
the  necessity  of  humoring  him— for  by  asking  the  theatre  for  an 
opera  of  his,  and  playing  the  first  part,  Caffariello  had  it  in  his  power 
to  give  completely  a new  turn  to  the  maestro’s  fortunes,  Porpora  be- 
gan to  compliment  him,  and  to  question  him  on  his  triumphs  in  a 
tone  of  railery  too  delicate  for  the  comprehension  of  his  mind,  thor 
oughly  impregnated  with  coxcombry. 

He  fell  accordingly  into  a strain  of  the  most  impertinent  rhodo- 
montade,  in  which  Porpora  encouraged  and  led  him  insidiously  on- 
ward, until  the  whole  company  were  laughing  in  their  sleeves.  At 
last,  however,  perhaps  suspecting  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  he  sud- 
denly changed  the  subject  “ Well  I maestro,”  said  he  to  Porpora,— 
u have  you  brought  out  many  pupils  of  late  in  Venice?  Have  you 
produced  any  who  gave  you  much  hope  ? ” 
u Speak  not  of  them  to  me.  Since  you,  my  school  has  been  barren. 
The  Lord  made  man,  and  he  rested.  So  soon  as  Porpora  had  pro- 
iuced  Caffariello,  he  crossed  his  arms,  and  thenceforth  his  work  was 
inded. 

u Good  master,”  cried  Caffariello,  charmed  by  the  compliment, 
fhich  he  took  perfectly  in  good  part,  “ you  are  too  indulgent  to  me. 
fou  had,  however,  some  pupils  in  the  Scuola  Dei  Mendicanti,  who 
promised  a good  deal.  You  produced  the  little  Corilla,  for  whom  the 
public  had  a little  fancy.  A handsome  creature,  upon  my  honor ! ” 
u A very  handsome  creature,  and  nothing  more.” 
u Really,  nothing  more  ? r asked  M.  Holzbaiier,  whose  ears  were  ever 
open.” 

“ Nothing  more,  I tell  you,”  replied  Porpora,  in  a tone  of  authority. 
u It  is  well  to  know  that,”  said  Holzbaiier,  in  a whisper  in  his  ear. 
u She  arrived  here  yesterday  evening,  and,  as  I am  told,  very  sick ; but 
for  all  that  I received  propositions  from  her  this  morning  for  an  en- 
gagement at  the  court  theatre.” 

* She  is  not  what  you  want,”  answered  Porpora.  u Your  wife  sings 
ten  times  better  than  she.” 

“ I thank  you  for  your  advice,”  said  the  director. 
u What?  and  no  other  pupil  over  and  above  the  plump  Corilla?’1 

ed  Caffariello.  u Venice  is  pumped  dry  then?  I had  a fancy  it 

* .ore  in  the  spring  with  Test” 

“ And  why  not  ? ” 

u Tesi  is  fixed  on  Dresden.  Shall  I not  then  find  a kitten  to  mew  in 
Venice?  I am  not  difficult, neither  is  the  public,  when  it  has  a prhm 


eov  SVBLO. 


m 

nomo  of  my  capacity  to  take  the  whole  operaon  hit  shoulder*  A 

K voice,  with  intelligence  and  docility,  will  be  all  I should  require 
9 duets.  Ah ! by  the  way,  maestro,  what  did  you  do  with  a little 
yellow-faced  thing  I saw  with  you  ? ” 

“ I have  taught  many  little  yellow-faced  things.” 

“ Oh  1 but  she,  I mean,  had  a prodigious  voice,  and  I recollect  that 
I said  to  myself,  as  I heard  her— ■“  Here  is  an  ugly  little  girl  that  will 
make  a hit.  I even  amused  myself  by  singing  something  with  her. 
Poor  little  girl,  she  cried  for  admiration.” 

* Ah  1 ah  I”  said  Porpora,  looking  at  Consuelo,  who  blushed  as  red 
as  the  maestro’s  nose. 

“ What  the  devil  was  her  name  ? ” resumed  Caffhrie’o.  u An  out* 
of-the-way  name.  Come,  master,  you  must  recollect  her;  she  was  as 
ugly  as  all  the  devils.” 

“That  was  I,”  said  Consuelo,  who  got  over  the  embarrassment, 
frankly  and  good-humoredly,  and  advanced  merrily  and  respectfully 
toward  Caffariello. 

Caffariello  was  not  put  out  so  easily.  “ You  ? ” said  he,  Jestingly,  as 
he  took  her  by  the  hand, — “ You  are  telling  a fib,  for  you  are  a very 
handsome  girl,  and  she  of  whom  I speak—” 

“ Oh ! it  was  really  I,”  said  Consuelo.  “ Look  at  me  well,  and  you 
•annot  but  remember  me.  Oh  I I am  the  same  Consuelo.” 

“ Consuelo  I yes,  that  was  her  devilish  name.  But  I do  not  recol* 
iect  you  in  the  least,  and  I am  afraid  they  have  changed  you.  My 
child,  if  in  gaining  beauty  you  have  lost  your  voice  and  the  talent 
which  you  foreshadowed,  you  would  have  better  done  to  remain 
ugly.” 

“ I want  you  to  hear  her,”  said  Porpora,  who  was  eager  that  Holz- 
baiier  should  hear  his  pupil.  And  he  pushed  Consuelo  toward  the 
harpsichord  somewhat  in  spite  of  herself ; for  it  was  long  since  she 
had  played  before  a learned  auditory,  and  she  was  not  prepared  to  sing 
to-night. 

“ You  are  mystifying  me,”  said  Caffariello.  “ It  is  not  the  same 
whom  I saw  in  Venice.” 

“ You  shall  judge,”  replied  Porpora. 

“ Really,  maestro,  it  is  cruelty  to  make  me  sing  when  I have  fifty 
leagues  of  dust  in  my  throat,”  said  Consuelo  timidly. 

“ Never  mind  that ! Sing ! ” said  the  maestro. 

“ Be  not  afraid  of  me,  my  child,”  said  Caffariello,  “ I know  what 
indulgence  the  circumstances  require,  and  to  prevent  your  being  afraid 
of  me,  I will  sing  with  you  if  you  please.” 

“On  that  condition,  I will  obey,”  she  answered,  “ and  the  pleasure 
shall  have  in  hearing  you  will  prevent  me  thinking  of  myself.” 

“ What  can  we  sing  together  ? ” said  Caffariello  to  Porpora. 
Choose  a duet  for  us.” 

“ Choose  for  yourself,”  said  Porpora ; “ there  is  nothing  she  cannot 
sing  with  you.” 

“ Well  then,  something  of  your  own  composition,  maestro;  I wish 
to  give  you  pleasure  to-day,  and  besides  I know  that  the  Signora  Wil- 
helmina  has  all  your  music  bound  up  and  gilded  with  oriental 
luxury.” 

“ Yes,”  grumbled  Porpora  between  his  teeth;  “ my  works  are  more 
richly  clad  than  I.” 

Caflviello  took  up  the  music  nooks,  turned  the  leaves  and  chose  a 
duet  from  Eumenes,  an  opera  which  Porpora  had  written  at  Rome 


eowstuLe, 


407 


for  Farlnelli.  He  sang  the  first  solo  with  that  grandeur,  that  perfec- 
tion, that  mastery,  which  caused  all  his  absurdities  to  be  forgotten  on 
the  instant,  and  his  excellences  only  to  be  remembered  and  enthusi- 
astically admired.  Consuelo  felt  herself  reanimated  and  revivifies  by 
the  power  of  that  extraordinary  man ; and  she,  in  her  turn,  sang  her 
female  solo,  better  perhaps  than  she  had  ever  sung  in  her  life.  Caffa- 
riello  did  not  wait  till  she  had  ended,  but  interrupted  her  several 
times  by  explosions  of  applause.  “ Ah ! Cara  J ” he  cried  several  times, 
u now  indeed  J recognise  you.  You  are  indeed  the  marvellous  child  I 
heard  in  Venice,  but  now  Figlia  mia , tuu  sei  un  portentoy  and  it  is 
Caffariello  tells  you  so.” 

Wilhelmina  was  a little  surprised,  perhaps  a little  disconcerted  at 
finding  Consuelo  even  more  powerful  than  at  Venice,  but  made  never- 
theless the  most  of  her  admiration.  Holzbaiier  always  smiling  and 
admiring,  preserved  a diplomatic  reserve  in  regard  to  an  engagement. 
Buononcini  declared  that  Consuelo  surpassed  both  Madame  Hasse, 
and  Madame  Cuzzoni ; and  the  ambassador  went  into  such  transports 
that  Wilhelmina  appeared  frightened — especially  when  she  saw  him 
take  off  a great  sapphyr  from  his  own  finger  to  place  it  on  that  of 
Consuelo,  who  scarce  knew  whether  to  accept  or  refuse  it.  The  duo 
was  furiously  encored,  but  the  door  opened  and  the  servant  announc- 
ed with  respectful  solemnity  M.  le  Comte  de  Hoditz.  All  the  world 
rose  with  a common  instinct  of  respect,  not  to  the  most  illustrious, 
not  to  the  best,  but  to  the  richest. 

“ I must  be  very  unlucky,”  thought  Consuelo  within  herself,  “ to 
meet  here  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  and  without  an  opportunity  of 
saying  a word  in  private  with  them,  two  persons  who  saw  me  on  my 
journey  with  Joseph,  and  who  must  naturally  have  formed  a bad 
opinion  of  my  morals  and  of  my  relations  with  him.  It  matters  not, 
honest  and  worthy  Joseph;  at  the  risk  of  all  the  calumnies  which 
they  may  raise  up  against  me,  I will  never  disavow  you  either  by 
word  or  in  heart.” 

Count  Hoditz,  all  blazing  with  embroideries  of  gold,  advanced  to*  - 
ward  Wilhelmina,  and  by  the  manner  in  which  he  kissed  her  hand, 
Consuelo  easily  perceived  the  difference  between  such  a mistress  of  a 
house  and  the  proud  patricians  she  had  seen  at  Venice. 

Consuelo  was  soon  called  upon  to  sing  again,  she  was  cried  up 
to  the  skies,  and  she  literally  shared  with  Caffariello  the  honors  of  the 
evening.  At  every  moment,  however,  she  expected  to  be  approached 
by  Count  Hoditz,  and  to  be  compelled  to  bear  the  brunt  of  some 
snalicious  joke.  But  strange  to  say,  Count  Hoditz  never  once  came 
near  the  piano,  toward  which  she  endeavored  to  turn  herself  so  that 
he  should  not  see  her  features ; and  when  he  had  once  asked  her 
name  and  age,  he  did  not  appear  even  to  have  heard  of  her  before. 
The  fact  is,  he  had  never  yet  received  the  imprudent  letter,  which  in 
her  traveller’s  audacity  she  had  addressed  to  him  by  the  wife  of  the  de- 
serter. He  had,  besides,  a very  indifferent  sight,  and  as  it  was  not 
then  the  fashion  to  make  use  of  glasses  in  a crowded  assembly,  he  but 
very  vaguely  distinguished  the  pale  face  of  the  cantatrice.  It  will 
perhaps  appear  strange  that  such  a maniac  for  music  as  he  pretended 
to  be,  should  have  felt  no  curiosity  to  see  so  remarkable  a virtuoso 
nearer  at  hand. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  this  Moravian  lord  admired  only  mu- 
sic of  his  own  composition,  his  own  style,  and  his  own  singers.  F 
had  no  sympathy  with  greai;  talents ; he  loved  on  the  contrary  to  beat 


*0*39X1.6* 


408 

them  down  in  their  estimate  of  their  value,  and  In  their  pretensions: 
and  when  he  was  told  that  Faustina  Bordoni  was  making  50,000 
francs  per  annum  in  London,  and  Farinelli  150,000,  he  was  wont  to 
shrug  his  shoulders  and  say,  that  he  had  singers  of  his  own  perform- 
ing at  his  own  theatre  of  Roswald,  in  Moravia,  for  500  francs  a year, 
who  were  worth  Farinelli,  Faustina,  and  M.  Caffariello  into  the  bargain, 
the  latter  being  especially  insupportable  to  him — indeed,  his  very  antip- 
athy, for  the  simple  reason,  that  in  his  own  sphere  and  style,  M.  Ho- 
ditz  had  precisely  the  same  absurdities  and  affectations  as  the  singer. 

He  whispered  and  tittered  therefore  with  Wilhelmina,  during  the 
last  piece  which  Consuelo  sang;  and  then,  seeing  Porpora  shooting 
furious  glances  at  him,  went  out  quickly,  having  enjoyed  no  pleasure 
in  the  company  of  these  pedantic  and  badly  instructed  musicians. 


CHAPTER  LXXXIIL 

Consuelo’s  first  movement  on  returning  to  her  room,  was  to  write 
to  Albert ; but  she  soon  found  that  it  was  by  no  means  as  easy  to  do 
this  as  she  had  at  first  imagined.  In  her  first  hurried  ideas  she  began 
to  relate  to  him  all  the  incidents  of  her  journey,  when  a fear  came 
over  her  that  she  was  in  danger  of  moving  him  too  deeply  by  the  pic- 
ture of  her  fatigues  and  dangers,  which  she  was  thus  setting  before 
his  eyes.  She  remembered  the  sort  of  delirious  fury  into  which  he 
had  fallen  when  she  had  told  him,  in  the  cavern,  the  terrors  which 
she  had  confronted  in  coming  to  find  him.  She  tore  the  letter;  and 
then  imagining  that  to  a mind  and  organization  such  as  his,  a single 
and  dominant  idea,  clearly  expressed,  was  the  most  needful,  she  set  to 
work  again. 

But  again,  what  had  she  to  announce  to  Albert?  What  could  she 
promise  or  affirm  to  him  anew?  Was  she  not  in  the  same  state  of 
irresolution,  in  the  same  alarm,  as  at  her  departure  from  the  castle  ? 
If  she  had  come  for  refuge  to  Vienna  rather  than  elsewhere,  was  it 
not  to  seek  the  protection  of  the  only  legitimate  authority  she  had  to 
recognise  in  life?  Porpora  was  her  benefactor,  her.  father,  her  sup- 
porter, her  master,  in  the  most  religious  acceptation  of  the  word. 
Near  him  she  felt  herself  an  orphan  no  longer;  she  did  not  even  ad* 
mit  the  right  as  possessed  by  her  of  disposing  of  herself,  following  the 
inspiration  of  her  heart  or  her  reason  only.  Now  Porpora  blamed  the 
idea  of  a marriage  which  he  regarded  ^s  a murder  of  genius,  as  the 
immolation  of  a great  destiny  at  the  shrine  of  a romantic  devotion. 
He  railed  at  it,  and  rejected  it  with  all  his  energies.  At  Riesenberg 
also,  there  was  an  old  man,  generous,  noble,  and  tender,  who  offered 
himself  as  a father  to  Consuelo ; but  can  one  change  fathers  under 
the  exigency  of  circumstances,  and  when  Porpora  said  no,  could  Con- 
suelo accept  the  yes  of  Count  Christian  ? ” 

She  began  again,  and  tore  up  the  beginnings  of  twenty  letters, 
without  being  able  to  satisfy  herself  with  one.  In  whatever  style 
she  set  out,  she  found  herself  at  every  third  word  making  some  rash 
assertion,  or  manifesting  some  doubt,  either  of  which  might  have  had 
consequences  the  most  fatal.  At  last  she  went  to  bed,  perfectly  worn 
otf  With  weariness,  vexation  and  anxiety,  and  suffered  there  for  aloof 


409 


CONS  V KL  O. 

time  from  cold  and  sleeplessness,  without  being  able  to  arrive  at  any 
resolution,  at  any  clear  conception  of  her  future  destiny.  At  length 
She  fell  asleep,  and  remained  in  bed  late  enough  to  allow  Porpora 
who  was  a very  early  riser,  to  get  out  of  the  way  on  his  round  of  visits. 
She  found  Haydn  occupied  as  the  day  before,  arranging  the  furniture 
and  brushing  the  clothes  of  his  new  master.  “ Come  then,  fair  sleep- 
er,” said  he,  as  he  saw  his  friend  appear,  “ I am  dying  of  ennui,  of 
sadness,  and  more  than  all,  of  fear,  when  I do  not  see  you,  my  guar- 
dian angel,  between  myself  and  that  terrible  man.  He  seems  always 
to  be  discovering  my  intentions,  to  be  on  the  point  of  turning  my 
stratagems  against  myself,  of  shutting  me  up  in  his  old  harpsichord, 
in  order  to  kill  me,  by  harmonious  suffocation.  He  makes  my  hair 
stand  up  on  my  head,  does  your  Porpora!  and  I cannot  persuade  my- 
self, that  he  is  not  an  old  Italian  devil ; the  Satan  of  that  country  be- 
ing admitted  to  be  much  more  wicked  and  much  shrewder  than  ours 
here  at  home.” 

* Comfort  yourself,  my  good  friend,”  said  Consuelo,  “ our  master  is 
not  unkind,  he  is  only  unhappy.  Let  us  begin  by  exerting  all  our 
cares  to  give  him  a little  happiness,  and  we  shah  soon  see  him  soften, 
and  return  to  his  natural  character.  Come,  Beppo,  let  us  go  to  work, 
so  that  when  he  returns  he  shall  find  his  poor  home  somewhat  more 
comfortable  than  it  has  been  to  him  of  late.  First,  I am  going  to  ex- 
amine his  clothes,  to  see  what  is  wanting.” 

“ What  is  here  will  not  take  long  to  count,”  said  J oseph,  “ and  it  is 
very  easy  to  be  seen ; for  I never  knew  a wardrobe,  unless  it  were  my 
own,  poorer,  or  in  worse  condition.” 

“ Well,  I shall  see  to  renovating  yours  also,  Joseph,  for  I also  am  a 
debtor  to  you.  You  fed  me  and  clothed  me  all  along  our  journey. 
But  let  us  think  first  of  Porpora.  Open  that  closet.  What ! only  one 
coat? — that  which  he  wore  last  night  at  the  Ambassador’s?  ” 

“ Alas  I that  is  all.  A maroon-colored  coat,  with  cut  steel  buttons, 
and  not  very  fresh  either.  The  other,  which  he  put  on  to  go  out,  is 
so  dilapidated  and  shabby,  that  it  is  a pity  to  look  at  it.  As  to  a 
dressing-gown,  I know  not  if  such  a thing  ever  existed,  but  I have 
been  searching  for  it  in  vain  for  an  hour.” 

Consuelo  and  Joseph  renewed  their  search,  and  soon  found  that 
Porpora’s  dressing-gown  was  an  imaginary  article ; and  when  count 
was  taken  of  his  shirts,  there  were  but  three,  and  those  in  utter  ruin, 
and  so  with  all  the  rest. 

“Joseph,”  said  Consuelo,  “here  is  a handsome  ring  which  was 
given  to  me  yesterday  in  payment  of  my  9ongs.  I do  not  like  ts  sell 
it,  for  that  would  draw  attention  to  me,  and,  perhaps,  indispose  peo- 
ple toward  me,  on  account  of  my  cupidity.  But  I could  offer  it  in 
uledge,  and  borrow  on  it  what  money  is  necessary  to  us.  Keller  is 
honest  and  intelligent ; he  will  know  well  what  price  to  set  on  that 
jewel*  and  will  surely  know  some  usurer,  who,  taking  it  in  pledge, 
will  advance  me  a good  sum  on  it.  Go  quickly,  and  return.” 

“ It  will  not  be  long  doing,”  replied  Joseph.  “ There  is  a sort  of 
jeweller,  an  Israelite,  who  lives  in  Keller’s  house;  and  as  the  latter  is 
a sort  of  factotum  for  secrets  of  that  kind  to  many  a nob'e  lady,  he 
will  easily  get  you  the  money  within  an  hour;  but  I will  have  nothing 
for  myselfi  Do  you  hear,  Consuelo?  You  yourself,  whose  baggage 
travelled  so  far  on  my  shoulder,  are  in  great  need  of  a better  toilet, 
•ttd  vou  will  have  to  appear  to-morrow  in  a gayer  dress  than  that.” 

" We  will  settle  our  accounts  hereafter  and  according  to  my  tast^ 


» 

410  COHICILO. 

Beppo.  Not  having  refused  your  services,  I havt  the  right  to  fbroi 
mine  upon  you.  Now  run  to  Keller’s.” 

In  a word,  within  an  hour  Haydn  returned  with  Keller  and  1,50C 
florins,  and  Consuelo  having  explained  her  wishes,  Keller  went  out 
and  brought  a friend  of  his,  a tailor,  whom  he  reported  to  be  discreet 
and  expeditious,  and  who,  having  measured  Porpora’s  coat  and  other 
garments,  engaged  to  produce  within  a few  days  two  other  complete 
suits,  a good  wadded  dressing-gown ; and  as  for  linen  and  other  neces- 
saries for  the  toilet,  he  promised  to  order  them  of  a workman  whom 
he  could  recommend. 

“Now  then,  signora,”  resumed  Joseph,  who,  unless  when  they 
were  tete-a-tete,  had  the  good  taste  to  speak  very  ceremoniously  to  his 
friend,  so  that  no  one  should  form  a false  idea  of  the  nature  of  their 
friendship,  “ Will  you  not  now  think  of  yourself?  You  brought 
hardly  anything  with  you  from  Bohemia;  and  what  is  more,  your 
clothes  are  not  in  the  fashion  of  this  country.” 

“ I was  on  the  point  of  forgetting  that  important  affair.  Good 
Mr.  Keller  must  again  be  my  counsellor  and  my  guide.” 

“Ah!  indeed,”  said  Keller,^ ‘ there  I am  in  my  own  line,  and  if 
I do  not  get  you  up  a dress  in  the  best  taste,  call  me  a presuming 
ignoramus.” 

“I  commit  myself  to  you,  my  good  Keller.  Only  I tell  you  that 
in  general  I have  a simple  taste,  and  that  things  suiting,  strong 
colors  neither  suit  my  habitual  paleness,  nor  my  simple  fancy.” 
“You  do  me  injustice,  signora,  in  supposing  that  I require  the 
information.  Is  it  not  my  profession  to  know  wdiat  colors  must  be  as- 
sorted to  what  faces,  and  do  I not  see  in  your  face  the  expression  of 
your  natural* disposition  ? Be  at  your  ease,  you  will  be  satisfied  with 
me,  and  very  soon  you  shall  be  in  readiness  to  appear  at  court,  if  you 
desire  it,  without  ceasing  to  be  as  simple  and  as  modest  as  you  now 
appear.  To  adorn  the  figure  without  changing  it,  is  the  true  art  of 
the  hairdresser,  as  well  as  of  the  costumer.” 

“ Yet  one  word  in  your  ear,  good  Monsieur  Keller,”  said  Consuelo, 
moving  the  wig-maker  away  from  Joseph.  “ Will  you  have  Master 
Haydn  newly  dressed  from  head  to  foot?  With  the  remainder  of  the 
money,  you  will  purchase  a handsome  silk  frock  for  your  daughter,  to 
wear  on  her  wedding  day.  I hope  it  will  not  be  far  distant;  for  if  I 
have  success,  I may  be  useful  in  aiding  our  friend  to  make  himself 
known.  For  he  has  talent — much  talent,  I can  assure  you.” 

“ Has  he  really,  signora?  I am  very  happy  at  what  you  tell  me,  for 
I always  suspected  it.  What  do  I say  ? I was  sure  of  it  from  the 
first  day,  when  I heard  him  sing  in  the  school  as  a little  child.” 

“ He  is  a noble  youth,”  said  Consuelo,  “ and  you  will  one  day  be 
recompensed  by  his  gratitude  and  faith  towards  you,  for  all  that  you 
have  done  for  him;  for  you  also,  Master  Keller,  are,  I well  know,  a 
worthy  man,  and  of  a generous  heart.  Now  tell  me,”  said  she,  draw- 
ing nearer  to  him,  “ have  you  done  what  we  agreed  upon  concerning 
Joseph's  patrons?  The  idea  was  yours,— have  you  put  it  in  execu- 
tion ? ” 

“ Indeed  I have,  signora,”  replied  Keller.  “ To  say  and  to  do  are 
the  same  thing  with  yc  nr  humble  servant.  As  I waited  on  my  cus- 
tomers this  morning,  ^ first  mentioned  it  to  monseigneur,  the  Vene- 
tian Ambassador — I have  xot  the  honor  of  waiting  on  himself,  but  I 
dress  his  secretary’s  hair — and  then  to  the  Abbe  Metastasio,  and  to 
Mademoiselle  Martinez,  his  pupil,  whose  head  is  also  under  my  cars. 


eoHBtr  ato, 


411 


I shall  persist,  by  one  means  or  other,  in  making  it  known  to  al  my 
customers ; and  after  that,  I will  make  customers,  in  order  to  make  i 
known  yet  further,  till  there  shall  be  no  danger  of  its  reaching  the 
ears  of  Master  Porpora.” 

44  If  I were  a queen,  I would  instantly  nominate  you  my  ambassa- 
dor,” replied  Consuelo,  “ but  I see  the  maestro  coming — make  your 
escape,  good  Master  Keller,  so  that  he  may  not  see  you.” 

“And  why  should  I escape,  signora?  I will  begin  dressing  your 
hair,  and  it  will  be  thought  that  you  sent  for  the  first  hairdresser  by 
your  valet,  Joseph.” 

44  He  has  a thousand  times  more  sense  than  we,”  said  Consuelo  to 
Joseph,  and  she  abandoned  her  black  hair  to  his  delicate  fingering, 
while  Joseph  resumed  his  apron  and  dusting  brush,  and  Porpora 
slowly  ascended  the  stairs,  humming  a phrase  of  his  forthcoming 

opera. 


CHAPTER  LXXXIV. 

As  he  was  very  absent  by  nature,  Porpora  did  not  even  observe,  as 
kissed  his  adopted  daughter  on  the  forehead  that  Keller  was  hold- 
lier  hair,  and  he  set  to  work  immediately  hunting  among  his  music 
lux  the  manuscript  of  the  phrase  which  was  running  in  his  head ; but 
on  perceiving  his  papers,  which  were  ordinarily  scattered  at  random 
over  the  top  of  the  harpsichord,  arranged  in  symmetrical  files,  he  at 
once  recovered  his  full  powers  of  observation. 

“ The  miserable  devil ! ” he  exclaimed,  44  he  has  presumed  to  touch 
my  manuscript.  This  is  ever  the  way  with  valets.  They  think  they 
are  arranging,  when  they  are  merely  piling  up ! I had  good  cause,  in- 
deed, that  I must  take  a valet;  this  is  the  beginning  of  my  misery.” 

44  Forgive  him,  master,”  said  Consuelo,  “ your  music  was  in  absolute 
chaos.” 

“ It  was,  at  least,  a chaos  in  which  I could  find  my  way ; I could  get 
up  in  the  night  and  find  any  part  of  my  opera  which  I wanted,  only 
by  feeling  my  way.  Now  I know  nothing  about  it  any  more.  It  will 
be  a month  before  I shall  be  able  to  rearrange  it.” 

“ No,  master;  you  will  find  your  way  at  once  and  without  difficulty. 
It  is  I who  am  in  fault,  moreover;  and  although  the  pages  were  not 
numbered,  1 am  sure  I have  put  them  all  in  their  places.  Look,  I am 
cure  you  will  read  more  easily  in  the  music-book  which  I have  made, 
than  you  could  on  the  loose  leaves,  which  a gust  of  wind  might  carry 
away  at  any  moment.”  ' 

“ A gust  of  wind ! Do  you  take  ray  room  for  the  lagunes  of  Ven- 
ice?” 

44  If  not  a gust  of  wind,  at  least  a wave  of  a broom.” 

44  And  pray  what  business  has  any  one  to  sweep  and  dust  my  apart- 
ment ? I have  lived  here  fifteen  days,  and  never  have  allowed  any  one 
to  enter  it.” 

44  I perceived  as  much,”  said  Joseph  to  himself.  44  Well,  master 
you  must  permit  me  to  alter  that  habit  altogether.  It  is  unwhole- 
some to  sleep  in  a room  which  is  not  aired  and  cleaned  every  day.  I 
will  take  it  on  me  to  re-establish  daily  the  disorder  which  you  like 
after  Beppo  has  arranged  and  swept  everything.” 


/ 


412  CONSUELO. 

“ Beppo — who  is  Beppo?  I know  no  Beppo.” 
u Beppo — wliy  that  is  he,”  said  Consuelo,  pointing  to  Joseph;  u Ml  • 
name  is  so  hard  to  pronounce  that  your  ears  would  have  been  tor- 
tured by  it  every  moment.  I gave  him  the  first  Venetian  name  1 
thought  of.  Beppo  is  good,  it  is  short,  and  it  can  be  sung  well  to 
music.” 

u As  you  will,”  said  Porpora,  getting  into  a bettor  humor,  and  bo- 
ginning to  turn  over  his  music  sheets*  which  he  found  arranged  cor- 
rectly, and  sewed  up  in  a neat  volume. 

44  Master,  have  you  breakfasted  ? ” asked  Consuelo,  whom  Keller 
had  now  set  at  liberty. 

“ Have  you  breakfasted,  yourself?  ” asked  Porpora,  half  anxiously, 
Half  impatiently. 

“ I have  breakfasted ; and  you,  master?  99 
u And  that  boy— that — Beppo;  ha9  he  eaten  anything? 99 
“ He  has  breakfasted ; and  you,  master  ? ” 

u Have  you,  then,  found  anything  to  eat  here  ? I did  not  remember 
that  I had  any  provisions.” 

“ We  have  breakfasted  very  well;  and  you,  master?  ” 

44  And  you,  master? — and  you,  master? — Go  to  the  devil  with  your 
questions.” 

“ Master,  you  have  not  breakfasted  ? 99 

a Ah ! I see  the  devil  has  got  into  my  house,  and  will  never  leave 
me  at  peace  again.  Come  here,  I pray  you,  and  sing  me  this  phrase. 
Now,  attention.” 

Consuelo  approached  the  piano,  and  sung  the  phrase  over  and  over 
again ; while  Keller,  who  was  a dilettante  of  great  force,  stood  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  comb  in  hand,  listening  with  all  his  ears.  The 
maestro,  who  was  not  content  with  this  phrase,  made  her  sing  it  over 
and  over  again,  now  dwelling  on  these  notes,  now  on  those ] seeking 
the  shade  of  tone  which  he  had  conceived,  with  a degree  of  obstinacy 
which  could  be  equalled  only  by  the  patience  and  submission  of  Con- 
suelo. During  this  time,  Joseph,  at  a sign  from  her,  brought  in  the 
chocolate  which  she  had  prepared,  while  he  went  for  Keller,  and  un- 
derstanding her  intentions,  set  it  down  within  reach  of  Porpora, 
without  saying  a worjd.  Before  long,  as  if  mechanically,  the  master 
took  it,  poured  it  into  a cup,  and  swallowed  it  eagerly ; a second  fol- 
lowed, reinforced  by  a goodly  piece  of  bread  and  butter,  and  Consu- 
elo,  growing  a little  impudent,  said,  as  she  saw  him  eat  with  pleasure: 

44  I knew  very  well,  master,  that  you  had  not  breakfasted.” 

44  It  is  true,”  said  he,  good-humoredly.  “ I believe  I forgot  it  1 
often  do  so  when  I am  composing,  and  I know  nothing  till,  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  I feel  spasms  in  my  stomach.” 

“ And  then  you  dnnk  brandy.” 
u Who  told  you  that,  little  fool  ? ” 

“ I found  the  bottle,  master.” 

44  Well,  what  is  that  to  you  ? You  are  not  going  to  forbid  me  bru> 
<Jy,  are  you  ? ” 

44  Yes,  I shall  forbid  you  brandy.  You  were  sober  at  Venice,  and 
thenyou  were  wdl.” 

44  Yes,  that  is  true,”  said  Porpora,  sadly.  “ I fancied  that  every- 
thing went  wrongly  there,  and  that  everything  would  go  on  better 
here.  However,  all  goes  from  ill  to  worse  with  me.  Fortune,  health, 
Inspiration,  everything ! and  he  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

*That  is  because  you  have  not  your  good  Venetian  coffee,  whiflh 


OKS  L ft  L O. 


413 


gives  you  so  much  stre  ig  -h  and  gaiety,  and  instead  of  that,  seek  to 
atimulate  yourself,  like  the  Germans,  with  beer  and  brandy,  which 
are  Killing  you.” 

“Ah!  this  is  still  the  truth.  My  ^ood  Venetian  coffee  was  my 
great  source  of  health,  genius,  inspiration.  All  that  one  drinks  here 
makes  one  mad  or  stupid.” 

“ Well,  master,  resume  your  coffee.” 

u Coffee,  here  ? I will  not.  It  makes  too  much  trouble ; one  must 
have  a servant-woman,  kitchen  furniture  to  be  washed — and  that  gets 
broken  with  a discordant  crash  in  the  middle  of'a  harmony.  No,  no. 
My  bottle ” 

“ That  gets  broken,  too.  I broke  it  this  morning  putting  it  into  the 
closet.” 

“ You  broke  my  bottle,  hey.  I don’t  know  what  prevents  me  from 
breaking  my  cane  over  your  head,  yon  ugly  little  thing.” 

“ Pooh ! you  have  been  telling  me  that  these  fifteen  years,  and  you 
have  never  so  much  as  given  me  a fillip  yet.” 
u Chatterbox  I Will  you  sing?  Will  you  get  me  through  this  ac- 
cursed phrase  ? I do  not  believe  you  can  sing  it  now,  you  are  think- 
ing of  so  many  other  things  this  morning.” 

“ You  shall  see  if  I do  not  know  it  by  heart,”  said  Consuelo,  closing 
the  book  abruptly,  and  then  singing  it  as  she  thought  it  ought  to  run, 
that  is  to  say,  differently  from  Porpora’s  mode  of  composition. 
Scarcely  had  she  ended,  before  he  started  from  his  chair,  clapping  his 
hands  and  crying,  “ That  is  it  I that  is  it ! That  is  what  I wanted  to 
hit,  and  could  not  hit.  How  the  devil  did  it  come  into  your  head  ? ” 
“ Is  it  not  as  you  wrote  it  ? Can  it  be  that  by  chance  I — no,  no,  it 
is  your  phrase.” 

M No,  cheat,  it  is  yours,”  said  Porpora,  who,  in  spite  of  his  exces- 
sive vanity,  was  candor  itself.  “ No,  it  is  yours.  It  is  good,  and  I will 
turn  it  to  my  profit.” 

Consuelo  then  sang  it  over  several  times.  Porpora  wrote  it  down, 
and  then  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  cried: 
a You  are  the  devil-— I always  thought  you  were  the  devil!  ” 

“ A good  devil,  believe  me,  master,”  said  Consuelo,  smiling. 
Porpora,  transported  with  joy,  began  to  feel  affout  under  the  table 
for  the  neck  of  his  bottle ; then,  finding  it  was  gone,  he  commenced 
drumming  on  the  music  desk,  and,  taking  up  the  first  thing  he  found, 
swallowed  it.  It  was  excellent  coffee,  which  Consuelo  had  prepared 
at  the  same  time  with  the  chocolate,  and  which  Joseph,  at  a sign 
from  her,  had  just  brought  up  almost  boiling.  “ Oh ! nectar  of  the 
gods ! — oh ! delight  of  the  musician ! ” exclaimed  Porpora.  “ What 
airy  has  brought  thee  from  Venice  beneath  her  wing?  ” 

“ The  devil,”  answered  Consuelo. 

“You  are  an  angd,  a fairy,  my  poor  child!”  said  Porpora,  bending 
Over  his  desk.  “ Poor  imprudent  children ! you  wish  to  comfort  my 
•ad  life,  but  you  know  not  what  you  do.  I am  devoted  to  desolation, 
and  your  cares  will  only  makrrmy  lot  the  more  deplorable  when  these 
few  bright  days  shall  have  passed  over.” 

“ I will  never  leave  you,”  cried  Consuelo,  “ never.  I will  always  be 
your  daughter  and  your  servant.” 

Porpora  buried  his  bald  head  among  the  leaves  of  his  music-book 
and  burst  into  tears. 

For  a few  days  after  this  Consuelo  was  kept  within  doors  by  a cold, 
ihe  had  travelled,  thinly  clad,  with  oxily^a  straw  hat,  without  a cloak 


C O -N  5 U E L 0. 


/ 


/ 

414 


and  without  a change  of  raimei  t,  sleeping  in  the  open  ir  at  timet, 
and  always  exposed  to  ail  the  capricious  changes  of  the  atmosphere, 
without  taking  the  slightest  hoarseness ; but  now,  immured  in  Porpo- 
ra’s  gloomy  lodgings,  she  felt  the  cold  and  discomfort  paralyzing  at 
once  her  energies  and  her  voice.  Porpora  was  desperately  out  of  tem- 
per at  this  disappointment,  for  he  knew  that  haste  alone  could  pro- 
cure his  pupil  an  engagement  at  the  royal  theatre ; for  Madame  Test, 
who  had  been  induced  to  go  to  Dresden,  now  seemed  to  hesitate,  se- 
duced by  the  entreaties  of  Caffariello,  and  the  brilliant  offers  of  Holz 
baiier,  who  was  anxious  to  attach  so  brilliant  an  artist  to  his  theatre. 
Corilla,  on  the  other  hand,  who  was  recovering  from  her  confinement 
was  intriguing  for  an  engagement  with  such  friends  as  she  had  among 
the  directors,  and  boasted  that  she  could  be  ready  to  appear  on  the 
itage  in  a week  if  necessary ; Porpora,  of  course,  ardently  desiring  that 
Consuelo  should  obtain  an  engagement,  both  for  her  own  sake  and  for 
that  of  his  opera,  which  he  hoped  to  get  accepted  through  her  instru- 
mentality. 

Consuelo,  on  the  other  hand,  knew  not  how  to  resolve.  To  make 
an  engagement  would  long  defer  the  possibility  of  her  union  with 
Albert,  would  spread  fear  and  consternation  among  the  Rudolstadts, 
who  certainly  did  not  expect  that  she  would  reappear  on  the  stage ; 
but  on  the  other  hand  to  refuse,  was  to  destroy  the  last  hope  of  Por- 
pora— to  give  him  another  instance  of  that  ingratitude  from  which  he 
had  suffered  so  deeply,  in  short,  to  deal  him  the  last  blow.  Frighten- 
ed and  annoyed  by  these  two  alternatives,  she  became  melancholy 
and  although  the  strength  of  her  constitution  preserved  her  from  any 
very  serious  indisposition,  she  was  languid,  low,  and  feverish,  and 
often  wished,  as  she  sat  shivering  over  the  meagre  fire,  that  a severe 
Illness  would  solve  the  question,  and  spare  her  the  responsibility  of 
deciding. 

In  the  meantime,  Porpora’s  temper,  which  had  expanded  during 
those  few  days  of  brief  sunshine,  became  gloomy,  morose  and  unquiet 
fo  soon  as  he  saw  Consuelo,  on  whose  efforts  alone  he  depended,  fall 
into  dejection  and  irresolution. 

After  often  vainly  endeavoring  to  bring  the  maestro  to  converse 
with  her  reasonably  m regard  to  love  and  marriage,  and  finding  that 
he  cduld  not  endure  even  to  hear  of  it,  she  at  length  resigned  her- 
self to  her  fate,  never  mentioned  the  name  of  Albert,  and  held  her- 
self ready  at  any  moment  to  sign  whatever  engagement  Porpora 
should  make  for  her.  When  she  was  alone  with  Joseph,  however, 
she  would  often  seek  a solace  by  opening  her  heart  to  him ; and  com- 
plaining of  the  strange  nature  of  her  destiny,  which  seemed,  as  it 
were,  to  compel  her  to  sacrifice  all  the  hopes,  all  the  promptings  of 
her  heart,  all  her  hopes  of  enjoying  domestic  happiness  herself,  and 
giving  happiness  to  others,  to  the  sterile  pursuit  of  art — turning  all 
her  best  feelings,  her  pity,  her  sympathy,  her  love  of  others,  which 
she  was  thus  compelled  to  immolate,  into  punishment  and  torture.” 

**  Were  I you,”  said  Haydn,  “ my  poor  Consuelo,  I can  only  say  that 
I would  listen  to  the  voice  of  my  genius,  and  stifle  that  of  my  heart. 
But  I know  you  now,  and  I know  that  you  cannot  do  it.” 

u No,  I cannoti  Joseph — ind  I feel  that  I never  shall  be  able  to  do 
U.  But  see  my  misfortune — see  how  strangely  my  lot  is  complicated 
—do  what  I may,  devote  myself  as  I will,  I cannot  consecrp\e  myself 
to  one  out  I must  abandon  the  other.” 

Then  diey  fell  into  a long  d^cussion  as  to  the  possibility  of  recoil 


COH  BUBLO. 


416 

dUlAg  Porpora  to  the  marriage,  on  the  one  hand,  and  prevailing 
upon  him  to  abandon  the  prosecution  of  his  art  foi  the  public,  to 
leave  the  city,  and  dwell  at  ease  in  his  old  age  with  his  adopted  daugh- 
ter and  his  son-in-law,  at  the  castle  of  the  Giants  ? But  it  was  too 
evident  to  bear  an  argument,  that  th  ^ artistic  independence,  the  high 
pride  and  haughty  spirit  of  the  old  musician  would  revolt  from  the  al- 
ternative, and  reject  the  offer  as  a u insult,  or,  if  he  should  try  it  for  a 
few  months,  would  get  disgusted,  and  give  it  up  immediately. 

On  the  other  hand,  to  think  of  introducing  Count  Albert  into  the 
follies  and  frivolities  of  artist  life  in  Vienna,  would,  with  his  peculiar* 
ities  of  manners  and  aspect,  be  even  more  impossible;  it  appeared, 
therefore,  that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  resign  herself,  and  let 
matters  take  their  course. 

In  the  meantime,  Consuelo  and  Joseph  applied  themselves  steadily 
to  increasing  the  comforts  of  the  maestro. 

The  furniture  of  his  room  was  renovated,  his  wardrobe  was  entire- 
ly replaced,  with  so  much  skill  and  tact,  that  the  maestro  never  dis- 
covered it,  or  if  at  any  time  suspected,  he  was  easily  diverted  from  it 
by  some  stratagem  of  Consuelo,  who  pretended  constantly  to  be 
engaged  in  repairing  his  old  clothes. 

“ Come,  come,”  said  he  one  day,  when  he  caught  her  mending  a 
waistcoat,  “ enough  of  this  folly.  An  artist  cannot  be  a workwoman, 
and  I will  not  see  you  sitting  here  bent  double  with  a needle  in  your 
hand  all  day.  Do  you  want  to  damn  me  ? ” 

“ You  need  not  begin  damning  yourself,  master,”  said  Consuelo 
“ for  my  voice  has  come  back  to  me.” 

“ Has  it  ? ” replied  the  maestro.  “ Then  you  shall  sing  to-day  be- 
fore her  Highness  the  Countess  of  Hoditz,  Margravine  of  Bareith.” 


CHAPTER  LXXXV. 

The  dowager  Margravine  of  Bareith,  widow  of  the  Margrave 
George  William,  born  Princess  of  Saxe  Weisenfeld,  and  afterward 
Countess  of  Hoditz,  “ had  been,”  as  men  said,  “ lovely  as  an  angel.” 
But  she  was  so  much  changed  that  it  was  necessary  to  study  her  fea- 
tures in  order  to  discover  even  the  relics  of  beauty.  She  was  tall, 
and  showed  that  she  must  once  have  had  a fine  figure ; in  fact,  she  had 
caused  the  death  of  several  children  by  procuring  abortions,  in  order 
to  the  preservation  of  that  very  figure.  Her  face  was  very  long,  as 
was  her  nose  also,  and  having  been  at  some  time  frozen,  which  im- 
parted to  it  the  color  of  beet  root,  it  by  no  means  improved  her  per- 
sonal appearance.  Her  eyes,  long  accustomed  to  exert  authority, 
were  large,  well  cut,  and  of  a deep  brown  hue,  but  they  were  so  much 
clouded  that  they  had  lost  much  of  their  vivacity.  As  she  had  no 
natural  eyebrows,  she  wore  false  ones — very  thick,  and  as  black  as  ink. 
Her  mouth,  although  large,  was  exquisitely  formed,  and  had  a most 
agreeable  expression.  Her  teeth,  as  white  as  ivory,  were  perfectly 
regular;  her  complexion,  though  smooth  and  regular,  was  yellowish, 
dead  and  liffeless-looking.  Her  air  would  have  been  gooa  but  for  its 
affectation.  She  was  the  Lais  of  her  century ; but  It  was  by  her  per- 
sonal appearance  only  that  she  had  charmed,  for  as  to  wit,  shs  had 
not  so  motife  as  a shadow  of  it,” 


i * 

C 0 M 8 U K L O. 


/ X 

416 

If  this  portrait  appear  to  be  drawn  by  too  severe  and  eyidcal  a 
hand,  it  does  not  come,  dear  reader,  from  the  pen  of  your  author.  It 
is,  word  for  word,  the  composition  of  a princess  celebrated  for  her 
misfortunes,  her  domestic  virtues,  her  pride,  and  her  malice  — the 
Princess  Wilhelmina,  of  Prussia,  sister  of  Frederick  the  Great,  wife 
of  the  hereditary  prince,  of  the  Margrave  of  Bareith,  the  nephew 
of  our  Countess  Hoditz.  She  was  certainly  the  greatest  scandal-mon- 
ger that  ever  came  of  royal  blood.  But  her  portraits  are  for  the  most 
part  drawn  with  a master  hand,  and  it  is  difficult,  as  you  read  them, 
not  to  believe  them  correct. 

When  Consueio,  with  her  hair  dressed  by  Keller,  and  attired,  thanks 
to  his  care  and  zeal,  with  elegant  simplicity,  was  introduced  into  the 
margravine’s  drawing-room,  she  placed  herself  by  Porpora’s  side,  in 
the  rear  of  a harpsichord,  which  had  been  set  obliquely  across  an 
angle  of  the  room,  so  as  to  be  in  the  way  of  no  person.  No  one  had 
arrived  as  yet,  so  punctual  was  Porpora,  and  the  servants  had  just 
done  lighting  the  lamps.  The  maestro  began  to  amuse  himself  by 
trying  the  piano,  and  had  scarcely  elicited  a few  sounds  from  it  before 
a very  handsome  lady  entered  the  room,  and  came  up  to  him  with 
much  affability  and  grace.  As  Porpora  bowed  to  her  with  the  utmost 
respect,  and  addressed  her  as  princess,  Consueio  took  her  for  the 
margravine,  and,  according  to  usage,  kissed  her  hand.  The  cold,  wan 
hand  which  she  had  taken  pressed  that  of  the  young  artist  with  such 
cordiality  as  is  rarely  exhibited  by  the  great,  and  Consuelo’s  affections 
were  gained  on  the  instant.  The  princess  appeared  to  be  about  thirty 
years  of  age ; her  form  was  elegant  without  being  correct,  and  certain 
faults  might  be  observed  in  it,  which  seemed  to  be  the  result  of  phys- 
ical sufferings.  The  expression  of  her  face  was  admirable ; but  she 
was  so  lamentably  pale,  and  showed  such  traces  of  overpowering 
grie£  that  her  charms  we're  all  prematurely  faded. 

Her  dress  was  exquisite,  but  simple  and  decorous,  almost  to  the 
verge  of  severity.  A character  of  kindness,  modesty,  and  sadness 
was  legible  in  every  feature  of  her  fine  face,  and  the  sound  of  her 
voice  had  something  in  it  so  tender  and  so  touching,  that  Consueio 
was  deeply  affected. 

Before  she  had  found  time,  however,  to  convince  herself  that  thi3 
was  not  the  margravine,  the  real  margravine  made  her  appearance. 
She  had  at  this  time  passed  her  fiftieth  year,  and  if  the  portrait  affixed 
to  the  head  of  this  chapter,  which  had  been  written  ten  years,  wras 
then  a little  overcharged,  it  was  certainly  so  no  longer  when  Consu- 
eio saw  her.  It  now  needed  indeed  a large  stock  of  credulity  and 
good-nature  to  believe  that  the  Countess  Hoditz  had  been  one  of  the 
Beauties  of  Germany,  although  she  was  dressed  and  painted  to  the 
acme  of  skill  and  coquetry.  The  rotundity  of  advanced  years  had 
ruined  the  figure,  concerning  which,  it  would  seem,  that  the  margra- 
vine still  cherished  strange  illusions,  for  her  bare  shoulders  and  bust 
were  displayed  as  proudly  as  though  they  still  possessed  the  symmetry 
of  an  antique  statue.  Her  head  was  dressed  with  flowers,  feathers,  , 
and  diamonds,  like  that  of  a young  woman,  a-id  her  dress  was  one 
blaze  of  jewelry. 

w Mamma,”  said  the  princess,  who  had  caused  Consuelo’s  error, 
u this  is  the  young  lady  whom  Maestro  Porpora  promised  to  introduce 
to  us,  and  who  is  about  to  give  us  the  pleasure  of  hearing  the  fine 
music  of  his  new  opera.” 

* That  is  uo  reason,”  x spiled  the  Margravine,  measuring  Consueio 


t)Ol  iUSLO 


41? 

from  head  to  foot,  “ why  you  should  hold  her  by  the  hand.  Go,  and 
take  a seat  near  the  harpsichord,  mademoiselle;  I am  very  glad  to  see 
you;  you  will  sing  to  us  when  the  company  shall  arrive.  I make  you 
my  salutations,  Master  Porpora ; but  you  must  pardon  me,  if  I seem 
to  neglect  you,  for  I see  that  something  is  wanting  to  my  toilet.  My 
daughter,  talk  a little  to  Master  Porpora,  he  is  a man  of  talent  whom 
I esteem.’1 

Having  uttered  these  words,  with  a voice  as  hoarse  as  that  of  a 
common  soldier,  the  margravine  turned  heavily  on  her  heel,  and  re- 
turned  to  her  own  apartments.  Scarcely  had  she  disappeared  before 
the  princess,  her  daughter,  returned  to  Consuelo,  and  took  her  hand 
again,  with  delicate  and  touching  kindness,  as  if  to  assure  her  that 
she,  at  least  had  no  sympathy  with  her  mother’s  impertinence  ; then 
she  entered  into  conversation  with  her  and  Porpora,  and  manifested 
an  interest  in  her,  full,  at  once,  of  simplicity  and  grace.  Consuelo  was 
the  more  moved  by  this  courtesy  and  kindness  that,  when  several 
persons  had  been  introduced,  she  remarked  a degree  of  coldness,  and 
a reserve,  half  timid  and  half  haughty,  in  the  manners  of  the  princess, 
which  she  had  evidently  laid  aside  in  her  conduct  toward  herself  and 
the  maestro.  When  the  saloon  was  nearly  full,  the  Count  Hoditz, 
who  had  dined  abroad,  entered  the  drawing-room  in  full  dress ; and, 
as  if  he  had  been  a stranger  in  his  own  house,  went  up  and  kissed  the 
hand  of  his  noble  wife,  with  an  air  of  the  greatest  respect,  and  en- 
quired after  her  health ; for  the  margravine  affected  to  be  exceedingly 
delicate,  lay  half  extended  on  her  sofa,  smelling,  every  moment,  some 
sovereign  remedy  against  vapors,  and  receiving  the  homage  of  her 
guests  with  an  air  which  she  intended  to  be  languishing,  but  which 
was  only  disdainful.  In  fact  she  was  so  consummately  ridiculous,  that 
Consuelo,  who  was  at  first  irritated  and  indignant  at  her  insolence,  at 
last  began  to  be  amused  at  her  expense,  and  to  plan  a merry  laugh  as 
she  should  describe  her  to  Beppo. 

a The  princess  had  drawn  near  to  the  harpsichord,  and  never  missed 
an  opportunity  of  addressing  a word  or  a smile  to  Consuelo,  when- 
ever she  could  do  so  without  attracting  the  attention  of  her  mother. 
This  situation  gave  Consuelo  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  a little  do- 
mestic by-plav,  which  gave  her,  in  some  sort,  the  key  to  what  was 
passing  in  the  'menage.  Count  Hoditz  approached  his  daughter-indaw, 
took  her  hand,  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  held  it  there  for  somd  time, 
with  an  expressive  look.  The  princess  withdrew  her  hand,  and  spoke 
a few  coldly  deferential  words  to  him.  The  count  did  not  listen  to 
them,  but  still  gazing  on  her  eagerly,  “ What  1 my  fair  angel,”  he  said, 
“ always  sad,  always  austere,  always  cuirassed  to  the  chin  I One 
would  suppose  you  were  going  to  turn  nun.” 

“ It  is  very  possible,”  replied  the  princess,  in  a low  voice,  * that  I 
©ay  end  by  doing  so.  The  world  has  not  so  treated  me  as  to  give  me 
jiy  deep  attachment  to  its  pleasures.” 

“ The  world  would  adore  you  and  would  be  at  your  feet,  if  you  did 
not  affect  to  hold  it  at  a distance.  And  as  to  the  cloister,  how  can 
you  dream  of  such  a horror,  at  your  age,  and  with  your  beauty?  ” 

u At  a much  more  smiling  age,  and  with  beauty  which  I possess  no 
longer,  I endured  the  horror  >f  a far  more  rigorous  captivity.  Have 
you  forgotten  it? — But  speak  to  me  no  lcnger,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  for 
mamma  is  looking  at  you.” 

As  she  spoke,  the  Count  started  away  from  his  daughter-in-law  as 
if  he  had  been  touched  by  a spring,  and  drew  near  to  Consuelo,  to 


411 


cost  strata. 


whom  he  bowed  very  gravely.  Then  having  spoken  « Ifcw  words  to 
her,  en  amateur , concerning  music  in  general,  he  opened  the  matte 
book  which  Porpora  had  laid  on  the  harpsichord,  and  pretending  to  be 
.ooking  for  some  particular  piece  which  he  wished  her  to  explain  to 
him,  leaned  over  the  desk  and  thus  addressed  her  in  a very  low  voice. 
“ I saw  the  deserter  yesterday  morning,”  he  said,  “ and  his  wife  de- 
livered a note  to  me.  I request  the  fair  Consuelo  to  forget  a certain 
meeting,  and  in  return  for  her  silence,  I will  forget  a certain  Joseph 
whom  I have  just  seen  in  my  antechamber.” 

“ That  certain  Joseph,”  replied  Consuelo,  whom  the  discovery  of 
the  jealousies  and  conjugal  constraints  of  the  family  rendered  very 
secure  concerning  the  results  of  the  meeting  at  Passau,“  is  an  artist  of. 
great  talents,  who  will  not  remain  long  in  an  antechamber.  He  is 
my  companion,  my  friend,  almost  my  brother — I have  nothing  to 
blush  at,  nothing  which  I wish  to  conceal  on  that  head ; and  all  that 
I have  to  ask  of  the  generosity  of  your  lordship  is  a little  indulgence 
for  my  voice,  and  a little  protection  for  Joseph  on  his  future  debut  on 
a musical  career.” 

“ My  interest  is  secured  to  the  said  Joseph,  as  my  admiration  is  al- 
ready secured  to  your  beautiful  voice,  but  I flatter  myself  that  a cei> 
tain  jest  on  my  part  was  never  supposed  to  be  serious.” 

“ I never  had  the  folly  to  suppose  it  so,  Monsieur  le  Comte ; besides 
which,  I well  know,  that  a woman  has  no  reason  to  be  vain  of  being 
made  the  subject  of  a jest  of  that  nature.” 

“ That  is  enough,  signora,”  said  the  count,  of  whom  the  dowager 
never  lost  sight  for  a moment,  and  who  was  now  anxious  to  choose 
another  listener,  in  order  to  avoid  giving  her  umbrage.  “ The  cele- 
brated Consuelo  should  know  how  to  pardon  something  to  the  gaiety 
of  a journey  in  pleasant  society,  and  she  may  count  in  future  on  the 
respect  and  devotion  of  Count  Hoditz.” 

He  replaced  the  music-book  on  the  piano,  and  advanced  obsequi- 
ously to  receive  a person  who  had  been  just  announced,  with  the 
most  pompous  respect.  He  was  a little  man,  who  looked  like  a 
woman  in  disguise,  so  rosy  was  he,  so  curled,  so  perfumed,  so  delicate, 
and  so  graceful;  it  was  he  of  whom  Maria  Theresa  used  to  say,  that 
she  should  like  to  have  him  set  in  a ring ; it  was  he  of  whom  she  also 
said,  that  she  had  made  a diplomatist,  because  she  could  make  notlr- 
ing  better  of  him.  He  was  the  plenipotentiary  of  Austria,  the  first 
minister,  the  favorite — some  went  so  far  as  to  say  the  lover  of  the  em- 
press ; he  was,  in  a word,  no  other  than  the  illustrious  Kaunitz,  who 
held  in  his  white  hand,  glittering  with  its  many-colored  ornature  of 
rings,  all  the  puissant  clues  of  European  policy. 

He  seemed  to  be  listening  very  gravely  to  persons  who  affected  to  be 
grave,  and  who  were  struggling  to  entertain  him  with  grave  topics; 
but  on  a sudden  he  interrupted  himself  to  ask  Count  Hoditz,  “ Who 
i 3 that,  whom  I see  there  at  the  harpsichord  ? Is  that  the  little  girl 
thej  spoke  to  me  about — Porpora’s  protegee?  That  poor  devil,  For- 
pora ! I wish  I jould  do  something  for  him ; but  he  is  so  exacting  and 
so  fantastical  that  all  the  artists  fear  or  hate  him.  When  one  speaks 
of  him  to  them,  it  is  to  show  them  the  head  of  Medusa.  He  tells  one 
that  he  sings  false — another  that  his  music  is  worthless — a third  that 
he  owes  all  his  success  to  intrigue — and  then,  he  expects  while  using 
this  Huron  language,  that  people  will  listen  to  him,  and  do  him  jus- 
tice. What  the  devil  we  don’t  live  in  the  woods.  Frankness  is  out 
of  fashion,  ai  d we  can  no  longer  lead  men  by  the  truth.  She  is  not 


C0N8UKL0, 


419 


so  bmd,  however,  that  little  thing;  I like  her  fac&  She  is  very  /lung, 
Is  she  not?  They  say  she  had  great  success  n Venice.  Porpors 
must  bring  her  to  me  to-morrow.” 
u He  is  very  anxious,”  said  the  princess,  “ that  you  should  obtain 
her  a hearing  from  the  empress,  and  I hope  you  will  not  refuse  him 
that  favor.  Indeed,  I ask  it  of  you  on  my  own  account.” 

“ There  is  nothing  easier  than  to  obtain  her  a hearing  from  her 
majesty,  and  the  desire  of  your  highness  is  enough  that  I should  pro- 
cure it  for  her.  But  there  is  a person  far  more  influential  than  her 
majesty,  at  the  Imperial  Theatre,  and  that  is  Madame  Tesi.  Even  if 
her  majesty  were  to  take  this  girl  under  her  protection,  I cannot  say 
that  her  engagement  would  be  signed  without  the  supreme  approba- 
tion of  Madame  Tesi.” 

“ They  say  that  it  is  you,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  who  ruin  all  these 
ladies  horribly,  and  that  were  it  not  for  your  indulgence,  they  would 
not  have  so  much  power.” 

“ What  would  you  have,  princess  ? Every  one  is  master  in  his  own 
house.  Her  majesty  understands  that  were  she  to  interfere  by  her 
imperial  decree  in  the  affairs  of  the  opera,  the  opera  would  go  all 
wrong.  Now,  her  majesty  is  anxious  that  the  opera  should  go  on 
well,  and  that  the  people  should  be  amused.  How  can  this  be 
brought  to  pass,  if  the  prim  a donna  has  a cold  on  the  very  day  when 
she  is  to  appear,  or  if  the  tenor,  instead  of  throwing  himself  into  the 
arms  of  the  basso  in  the  middle  of  a fine  scene  of  reconciliation,  hits 
him  a blow  with  his  fist  under  the  ear?  We  have  enough  to  do  to 
manage  Caffariello’s  whims,  and  are  very  well  pleased  that  Madame 
Tesi  and  Madame  Holzbaiier  contrive  to  keep  good  friends.  If  we 
cast  an  apple  of  discord  on  the  stage,  we  shall  be  worse  off  than 
ever.” 

“ But  a third  woman  is  indispensably  necessary,”  said  the  Venetian 
ambassador,  who  warmly  protected  Porpora  and  his  pupil,  “ and  her 
offer  is  an  admirable  one.” 

“ If  she  be  admirable,  so  much  the  worse  for  her.  She  will  make 
Madame  Tesi  jealous,  who  is  admirable,  and  wishes  to  be  the  only 
one  who  is  so ; and  she  will  make  Madame  Holzbaiier  furious,  who 

wishes  to  be  admirable  also,  and  who ” 

u Is  not,”  said  the  ambassador  dryly. 

u She  is  well  born ; she  comes  of  a very  respectable  family,”  said 
M.  de  Kaunitz  shrewdly. 

“ For  all  that  she  cannot  sing  two  parts  at  once.  She  certainly 
must  let  the  mezzo-soprano  have  her  share  in  the  opera.” 

“We  have  a Corilla,  who  has  just  offered  herselfj  who  is  by  far  tke 
handsomest  creature  in  the  world.” 

“ Has  your  excellency  seen  her  already?” 

“ On  the  very  day  of  her  arrival.  But  I have  not  yet  heard  her; 
she  was  sick.’* 

“ You  shall  hear  this  girl;  and  you  will  not  hesitate  when  they 
have  both  been  heard,  to  give  her  the  preference.” 

4 ‘ It  is  very  possible.  I even  confess  to  you  that  her  face,  though 
less  handsome  than  that  of  the  other,  is  yet  more  agreeable  to  me. 
She  has  an  amiable  and  modest  expression;  but  my  preference  will 
do  her  no  good,  poor  thing.  She  cannot  please  Madame  Tesi 
without  displeasing  Madame  Holzbaiier;  and  hitherto,  in  spite  of 
the  very  tender  friendship  which  exists  between  these  two  ladies, 
whatever  has  been  approved  by  the  one  has  always  had  the  fortune 
to  be  bitterly  opposed  by  the  other. 


* This  is  a perilous  crisis,  then,  and  an  affair  of  the  gravest  impose 
lance,”  said  the  princess  with  an  affectation  of  seriousness,  as  she  no* 
Heed  the  weight  which  these  two  statesmen  attributed  to  the  in- 
trigues of  the  geeen-room.  “ Here  is  our  poor  little  protegee  in  the 
scales  against  Madame  Gorilla ; and  I would  lay  a wager  that  Mon- 
sieur Caffariello  will  cast  his  sword  into  the  balance,  on  one  side  or 
the  other.” 

When  Consuelo  had  sung,  there  was  but  one  voice  declaring  that, 
since  Madame  Hasse,  nothing  had  been  heard  that  could  compare 
with  her;  and  Monsieur  de  Kaunitz,  coming  up  to  her,  said  in  a sol- 
emn voice,  “ Mademoiselle,  you  sing  better  than  Madame  Tesi;  but 
let  this  be  said  to  you  here  by  all  of  us  in  confidence;  for  if  such  a 
judgment  should  go  abroad  concerning  you,  you  are  ruined  for  ever; 
and  you  will  not  make  your  appearance  this  year  in  Vienna.  Have 
prudence  then,  very  much  prudence,”  he  added,  lowering  his  voice  as 
he  sat  down  beside  her.  “ You  have  to  struggle  against  great  obsta- 
cles, and  you  will  only  triumph  by  dint  of  tact.”  And  therewith  en- 
tering into  the  thousand  ramifications  of  theatrical  intrigue,  and  put- 
ting her  fully  in  possession  of  the  course  of  all  the  petty  rivalries  and 
manoeuvres  of  companies,  the  great  Kaunitz  delivered  himself  of  a 
whole  treatise  in  her  favor  of  the  diplomatic  science,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  green-room. 

Consuelo  listened  to  him  with  her  great  eyes  wide  open,  with  won- 
der; and  when  he  had  finished  speaking,  as  he  had  said  at  least 
twenty  times,  “ My  opera,”  and  “ the  opera  which  I produced  last 
month,”  she  fancied  that  she  must  have  been  mistaken  when  he  was 
announced,  and  that  this  person  who  appeared  to  be  so  thoroughly 
versed  in  all  the  arcanae  of  the  dramatic  career,  could  be  no  other 
than  the  director  of  some  opera,  or  some  fashionable  music-master. 
She  therefore  became  perfectly  at  her  ease  with  him,  and  talked  to 
him  as  she  would  have  done  to  one  of  her  own  profession.  His  free- 
dom from  restraint  rendered  her  much  more  artless,  and  much  mer- 
rier than  strict  etiquette  would  have  permitted  her  to  be  with  a per- 
son of  such  dominant  position  as  the  prime  minister.  Monsieur  de 
Kaunitz  was  charmed  with  her,  and  amused  himself  talking  with  her 
for  above  an  hour.  The  margravine  was  greatly  scandalized  at  such 
an  infraction  of  propriety;  for  accustomed  as  she  was  to  the  dull  and 
solemn  formalities  of  small  courts,  she  detested  the  liberty  of  large 
ones.  But  she  had  no  longer  the  power  of  playing  the  margravine,  for  in 
truth  she  was  a margravine  no  longer,  and  was  only  tolerated  and  re- 
ceived by  the  empress  because  she  had  abjured  the  Lutheran  and 
adopted  the  Roman  Catholic  religion.  Thanks  to  this  act  of  hypoc- 
risy, all  breaches  of  decorum,  all  improprieties  of  intermarriage,  nay, 
even  all  crimes,  could  meet  with  pardon  at  the  court  of  Austria ; and 
Maria  Theresa,  in  this  respect,  followed  the  example  which  her  father 
and  mother  had  set  her,  of  receiving  any  person  whomsoever,  pro- 
vided he  was  desirous  of  escaping  the  rebuffs  and  scorns  of  Protes- 
tant Germany,  by  taking  refuge  within  the  pale  of  the  Romish  churc’n 
But,  all  princess  and  Catholic  as  she -was,  the  margravine  was  no- 
body at  Vienna,  and  Monsieur  de  Kaunitz  was  everything. 

As  soon  as  Consuelo  had  sung  her  third  piece,  Porpora,  who  knew 
all  the  fashions  of  the  time,  made  her  a sign,  rolled  up  his  music,  and 
made  his  retreat  with  her  through  a small  side  door,  without  disturb- 
ing any  of  the  great  personages  ^ho  bad  deigned  to  open  their  ears  t* 
her  divine  accents* 


CONSUELO, 


4X1 


“All  is  going  well;*’  said  he,  rubbing  his  uands  together,  m soon  as 
they  were  in  the  street,  escorted  yy  Joseph,  carrying  their  flambeau. 

“ Kaunitz  is  an  old  dolt  who  knows  what  he  is  about,  and  who  will 
give  you  a good  lift.” 

“ And  who  is  Kaunitz?  ” asked  Consuelo,  “ I have  not  seen  him." 

“ You  have  not  seen  him,  you  little  blunderhead  I why  he  talked  to 
you  for  an  hour.” 

“ Surely,  you  do  not  mean  that  gentleman  with  the  pink  and  silver 
waistcoat,  who  told  me  such  a pack  of  old  wife  stories  that  I took  him 
for  some  old  box-keeper.” 

“ That  is  the  very  man.  What  is  there  so  wonderful  in  that?  ” 

“ For  my  part,  I think  it  is  very  wonderful,”  replied  Consuelo ; “ and 
^t  was  not  the  idea  I had  formed  of  a statesman.” 

“ That  is  because  you  do  not  see  how  states  are  conducted.  If  you 
could  only  see  that,  you  would  think  it  very  surprising  indeed  il 
statesmen  were  anything  else  than  old  women.  But  come,  silence  on 
all  such  subjects  as  this,  and  let  us,  for  our  part,  endeavor  to  perforin 
our  business  through  this  masquerade  of  the  world:” 


CHAPTER  LXXXYL 

A few  days  after  this,  Porpora,  having  bestirred  himself  amazing- 
ly,  and  intrigued  very  extensively  after  his  fashion,  that  is  to  say,  by 
threatening,  scolding,  and  taunting  every  one  to  the  right  and  left, 
Consuelo  was  conducted  to  the  imperial  chapel  by  Master  Reuter,  the 
former  master  and  former  enemy  of  young  Haydn,  and  sang  in  the 
presence  of  Maria  Theresa,  the  part  of  Judith,  in  the  opera  of  Betulia 
liberata , the  poetry  by  Metastasio,  and  the  music  by  Reuter  himself. 
Consuelo  wa^  magnificent;  and  Maria  Theresa  deigned  to  be  very 
well  satisfied.  When  the  sacred  concert  was  ended,  Consuelo  was 
invited  with  the  other  singers,  Caffariello  being  one  of  the  number, 
to  pass  into  one  of  the  saloons  of  the  palace,  to  partake  of  a collation, 
at  which  Reuter  presided.  She  had  scarcely  taken  her  seat  between 
that  master  and  Porpora  when  sounds,  at  once  hurried  and  solemn, 
were  heard  coming  from  the  gallery  beyond,  which  caused  all  the 
guests  to  start,  with  the  exception  of  Consuelo  and  Caffariello,  who 
were  engaged  in  an  animated  discussion  on  a movement  in  a certain 
chorus,  which  the  one  would  have  nfore  lively,  and  the  other  slower. 

“ The  master  himself,”  said  Consuelo,  turning  toward  Reuter,  “ can 
decide  that  question;  but  Reuter  was  no  longer  at  her  right, nor  Por- 
pora at  her  left;  every  one  had  risen  from  the  table,  and  were  arrang- 
ed in  a line,  with  an  expression  of  the  profoundest  reverence.  Con 
suelo  found  herself  face  to  face  with  a woman  of  about  thirty  years, 
handsome  and  still  full  of  energy  and  freshness,  dressed  in  black,  which 
was  the  chapel  costume,  and  accompanied  by  seven  chldren,  one  of 
whom  she  held  by  the  hand.  He  was  the  heir  to  the  throne,  the  young 
C»sar,  Joseph  IL,  and  that  handsome  woman  with  the  easy  bearing, 
the  affable  yet  imposing  d ameanor,  was  Maria  Theresa. 

“ Is  this  la  Guiditta  * ” the  empress  inquired  of  Reuter.  I am  very 
much  pleased  with  you,  uiy  child,”  she  added,  examining  Consuelo 
from  head  to  foot;  * you  haye  ™ie,  in  truth,  real  pleasure,  am* 


€ O N B T5  ELO. 


never  have  I better  appreciated  .he  sublimity  of  our  admirable  poePf 
verse  than  low,  in  youc  harmonious  mouth.  You  pronounce  perfect 
ly  well,  and  that  is  a point  to  which  I attach  a great  deal.  How  old 
are  you,  mademoiselle?  You  are  a Venetian,  are  you  not?  a pupil  of 
the  famous  Porpora,  wrhom  I see  here  with  much  interest?  You  are 
desirous  of  an  engagement  in  the  court  theatre?  You  are  made  to 
shine  there-resplendent ; and  Monsieur  de  Kaunitz  protects  you.” 
Having  questioned  Consuelo  thus,  without  giving  her  an  opportu- 
nity of  replying,  and  looking  by  turns  at  Kaunitz  and  at  Metastasio, 
who  accompanied  her,  Maria  Theresa  made  a sign  to  one  of  her  cham- 
berlains, who  presented  a very  rich  bracelet  to  Consuelo.  Before  she 
had  so  much  as  thought  of  answering  or  thanking  her,  the  empress 
had  already  traversed  the  hall,  and  had  withdrawn  from  her  eyes  the 
splendor  of  the  imperial  brow.  She  had  retired  with  her  royal  bevy 
of  princes  and  archduchesses,  addressing  a gracious  and  favorable 
word  to  each  one  of  the  musicians  who  were  within  reach  of  her,  and 
leaving  behind  her,  as  it  were,  a luminous  wake,  dazzling  the  eyes  of 
all  beholders  with  the  brightness  of  her  glory  and  her  power. 

Caffariello  was  the  only  one  who  retained,  or  affected  to  retain,  his 
self-possession.  He  resumed  his  discussion  with  Consuelo  at  the 
very  point  where  it  had  been  interrupted ; and  Consuelo,  putting  the 
bracelet  into  her  pocket,  without  so  much  as  thinking  to  look  at  it, 
began  to  argue  with  him  again,  to  the  great  astonishment  and  scan- 
dal of  the  other  Inusicians,  who,  prostrated  before  the  fascination  of 
the  imperial  vision,  did  not  conceive  it  possible  to  think  of  anything 
else  during  the  whole  of  that  day.  There  is  no  need  that  we  should 
say  that  Porpora  formed  a solitary . exception,  both  instinctively  and 
systematically,  to  that  rage  of  self-humiliation.  He  knew  how  it  was 
proper  to  show  their  suitable  reverence  to  crowned  heads;  but,  in 
the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  scorned  and  despised  slaves.  Master 
Reuter,  whom  Caffariello  addressed  concerning  the  true  movement 
of  the  chorus  in  dispute,  kept  his  lips  hypocritically  closed;  and 
after  having  suffered  himself  to  be  questioned  several  times,  at  last 
replied  very  coldly,  “ I confess  to  you,  monsieur,  that  I am  not  with 
you  in  your  conversation.  When  Maria  Theresa  is  before  my  eyes,  I 
forget  the  whole  world;  and  long  after  she  has  disappeared,  I remain 
under  the  influence  of  an  emotion  which  does  not  permit  me  to 
think  of  myself.” 

“ Mademoiselle  does  not  appear  to  be  bewildered  by  the  distinguished 
honor  which  she  has  drawn  down  upon  us,”  said  Monsieur  Holzbaiier, 
who  was  present,  and  whose  self-abasement  had  something  more  sus- 
tained than  that  of  Reuter.  “ It  seems  to  be  an  every  day  matter 
to  you,  signora,  to  talk  with  crowned  heads:  one  would  say  you  had 
done  nothing  else  all  your  life.” 

“ I never  spoke  to  any  csowned  head  in  my  life,”  replied  Consuelo, 
quietly,  who  wordd  not  notice  Holzbaiier’s  insinuations;  “and  her 
majesty  did  not  afford  me  the  honor  of  doing  so,  for  she  “seemed,  while 
addressing  me,  to  forbid  me  the  honor,  or  to  spare  me  the  trouble  of 
replying  to  hei.” 

“ You  would  have  wished,  then,  to  enter  into  conversation  with  the 
empress,”  said  Porpora,  with  a jesting  expression. 

“ I never  wished  such  a thing  at  all,”  replied  Consuelo,  in  artificially. 

“ That  is  because  mademoiselle  is,  it  appears,  heedless  rather  than 
ambitious,”  said  Reuter,  with  icy  disdain. 

“Master  Reuter,”  said  JonsueK  ~~u£d©ntly  end  candidly,  “are 


con  sviLo.  428  \\ 

v 

Ea  dissatisfied  with  the  manner  in  which  I have  sung  your  music?" 

uter  was  compelled  to  admit  that  no  one  could  have  sung  it  better, 
even  under  the  reign  of  the  august  and  ever-to-be-regretted  Charles  IV, 

* In  that  case,”  said  Consuelo,  “ do  not  reproach  me  with  heedlessness. 

I have  the  ambition  to  satisfy  my  masters.  I have  the  ambition  to 
perform  the  duties  of  my  profession  well ; and  what  other  ambition 
should  I have  ? what  other  would  not  be  ridiculous  and  misplaced  on 
my  part  ? ” 

“ You  are  too  modest,  mademoiselle,”  resumed  Holzbaiier.  “ There 
is  no  ambition  too  vast  for  talents  such  as  yours.” 

“ I take  that  for  a compliment  dictated  by  your  gallantry,”  replied 
Eonsuelo ; but  I shall  not  believe  that  you  are  really  pleased  with  me, 
until  the  day  when  you  shall  invite  me  to  sing  at  the  court  theatre.” 
Holzbaiier,  who  was  fairly  caught,  in  spite  of  all  his  prudence,  af- 
fected a fit  of  coughing,  in  order  to  spare  himself  the  necessity  of 
speaking,  and  got  himself  out  of  the  scrape  by  a very  respectful  and 
courteous  bow.  Then  bringing  back  the  conversation  to  its  original 
ground — “ You  are  really,”  he  said,  “ the  calmest  and  most  disinter- 
ested person  I ever  heard  of.  You  have  not  even  looked  at  the  hand- 
some bracelet  of  which  her  majesty  has  made  you  a present.” 

“Oh!  that  is  true!”  said  Consuelo,  drawing  it  from  her  pocket, 
and  passing  it  to  her  neighbors,  who  were  anxious  to  see  and  value  it. 
u It  will  be  something  wherewith  to  buy  wood  for  the  master’s  stove, 
in  case  I should  fail  to  get  any  engagement  this  wunter,”  thought 
Consuelo  within  herself.  A very  trivial  pension  would  have  been  of 
far  more  use  to  us  than  dresses  and  ornaments.” 

“How  heavenly  is  her  majesty’s  beauty,”  said  Reuter,  with  a sigh 
of  deep  feeling,  casting  an  ill-natured  sidelong  glance  at  Consuelo. 

“ Yes,  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  handsome,”  answered  the  young 
girl,  who  did  not  understand  the  nudges  which  Porpora  kept  giving 
her. 

“ She  seemed  to  you,”  said  Reuter.  “ You  are  difficult  to  please.” 

“ I had  scarcely  time  to  look  at  her,  she  passed  so  quickly.” 

“ But  her  dazzling  genius!  the  intellect  which  is  displayed  at  every 
word  which  issues  from  her  lips ! ” 

“ I had  so  little  time  to  hear  her,  and  she  said  so  little!” 

“ Truly,  mademoiselle,  you  must  be  of  brass  or  adamant ; I know 
not  what  there  is  that  can  move  you.” 

“I  was  much  moved  while  singing  your  Judith,”  said  Consuelo,, 
who  knew  how  to  be  sharp  when  she  pleased,  and  who  now  began  to 
perceive  the  ill-will  of  the  Viennese  masters  towards  her. 

“ That  girl  has  wit,  under  all  the  simplicity  of  her  manner  ” said 
Holzbaiier  to  Master  Reuter.  “ But  it  is  of  Porpora’s  own  school,  all 
scorn  and  mockery.”  a 

“ If  we  do  not  look  out,  old-fashioned  recitative  and  the  antiquated 
style  will  take  the  field  against  us  more  vigorously  than  of  yore,”  re- 
plied Reuter.  “ But  be  not  disturbed,  I have  a method  for  preventing 
this  Porporiniallerie  from  raising  its  voice.” 

When  they  were  all  rising  from  table,  Caffariello  said  to  Consuelo, 
in  her  ear,  “ Do  you  see,  my  child,  all  these  people  are  mere  gutter 
sweepings.  You  will  have  a good  deal  of  trouble  before  you  will  be 
able  to  do  any  thing  here ; they  are  all  against  you.  They  would  be 
against  me  if  they  dared.” 

“ And  what  have  we  done  to  them?  ” asked  Consuelo,  in  astonish* 


We  are  both  j iipfle  of  the  greatest  singing  master  In  the  woridL 
They  and  their  creatures  are  our  natural  enemies.  They  will  indispose 
Maria  Theresa  towards  you ; and  every  word  you  have  uttered  here 
will  be  repeated  to  her,  with  malicious  amplifications.  She  will  be 
told  that  you  said  she  is  not  handsome,  and  that  you  considered  her 

fft  mean  and  trivial.  I know  all  their  tricks.  Take  courage,  however, 
will  protect  you,  and  I believe  that  the  judgment  of  CafFariello  in 
music  is  worth  at  least  as  much  as  that  of  Maria  Theresa.” 

“ Between  the  malice  of  the  one  party,  and  the  absurdity  of  the 
ether,”  said  Consuelo  to  herself,  as  she  retired,  * I am  nicely  com 
promised.  Oh,  Porpora,”  said  she,  “ I will  do  my  utmost  to  obtain 
re-engagement  in  the  theatre.  Oh,  Albert ! I hope  that  I shall  fail  to 
do  so  I ” 

On  the  following  day,  Porpora  having  business  in  town  all  day,  and 
thinking  that  Consuelo  was  somewhat  pale,  he  requested  her  to  „ake 
a drive  out  of  town  to  the  Spinnerin  am  Kreutz,  with  Keller’s  wife, 
who  had  offered  to  accompany  her  whenever  she  desired  it.  As  soon 
as  the  maestro  had  gone  out,  “ Beppo,”  said  the  young  girl,  “ go 
quickly  out  and  hire  a little  carriage,  and  let  us  both  go  and  see  An- 
gela, and  thank  the  canon.  We  promised  to  do  so  before;  but  my 
cold  must  be  my  excuse.” 

“ And  in  what  costume  will  you  present  yourself  to  the  canon  ? ” 
asked  Beppo. 

“ In  this  which  I wear,”  she  replied.  “ The  canon  must  learn  Who 
I am,  and  receive  me  in  my  true  form.” 

“ Excellent  canon,  I quite  look  forward  to  seeing  him  again.” 

“ And  I also.” 

“ And  yet,  it  almost  vexes  me  to  think — to  think— 

“ To  think  what  ? ” 

“ That  his  head  will  now  be  turned  altogether.” 

“ And  at  what,  I pray  you?  Am  I a goddess?  for  I never  imag- 
ined it.” 

“ Consuelo,  remember  that  he  was  three  parts  crazy  about  yo* 
when  we  left  him.” 

“ I tell  you,”  she  replied,  “-that  it  will  be  that  he  shall  know  me  to 
be  a woman,  and  see  me  as  I am,  to  give  him  back  all  his  command 
over  himself,  and  to  become  again  that  which  God  made  him— a rea- 
sonable man.” 

“ It  is  true  that  the  dress  has  something  to  do.  Thus,  when  I saw 
you  here  transformed  into  a young  lady,  after  being  in  the  habit  for  a 
fortnight  of  treating  you  as  a boy,  I experienced  I know  not  what  of 
fear,  of  constraint,  for  which  I could  not  account  to  myself;  and  it  is 
certain  that  during  our  journey,  if  I had  been  permitted  to  fall  in  love 
with  you — but  you  will  say  that  I am  talking  nonsense—” 

“ Certainly,  you  are  talking  nonsense,  Joseph,  and  what  is  more,  you 
are  losing  time  in  gossiping.  We  have  ten  leagues  to  pass  in  going  to 
and  returning  from  the  priory.  It  is  now  eight  in  the  morning,  and 
we  must  be  back  at  seven  this  evening  to  sup  with  the  maestro.” 
Three  hours  after  this,  Beppo  and  his  companion  descended  from 
their  carriage  at  the  door  of  the  priory.  It  was  a lovely  day,  but  the 
canon  was  looking  at  his  flowers  with  a mournful  aspect.  When  he 
saw  Joseph  he  uttered  a cry  of  joy,  and  hurried  to  meet  him;  but  he 
stood  stupefied  on  recognising  his  favorite  Bertoni  in  the  dress  of  a 
woman. 

“ Bertoni,  my  beloved  child”  he  exclaimed,  with  a sort  of  plow 


eoxs  ujsi  o. 


4*1% 

frirbiwij  u what  means  this  disguise,  and  wherefore  do  you  come 
to  see  me  transfigured  thus?  It  is  not  carnival  times.” 

44  My  most  revered  friend,”  said  Consuelo,  kissing  his  hand;  4 you t 
reverence  must  pardon  me  for  having  deceived  you — Bertom  never 
existed,  and  when  I had  the  honor  to  meet  you  I was  really  in  dis- 
guise.” 

44  We  thought,”  said  Joseph,  who  feared  to  see  the  consternation  of 
the  canon  turn  into  disgust,  “ that  your  reverence  was  not  deceived 
by  the  innocent  deceit.  It  was  not  a trick  played  off  upon  you,  but  a 
necessity  imposed  on  us  by  circumstances,  and  we  believed  that  your 
reverence  had  the  kindness  and  delicacy  to  lend  yourself  to  it.” 

“ And  did  you  believe  this?  ” asked  the  canon,  alarmed  and  thun- 
derstruck; “ you  too,  Bertoni — I would  say,  mademoiselle — did  you 
believe  this  ? ” 

44 No,  Monsieur  Canon,”  replied  Consuelo;  “I  never  believed  it  for 
a moment.  I saw  perfectly  that  your  reverence  had  not  the  slightest 
suspicion  of  the  truth.” 

“ And  you  do  me  justice,”  said  the  canon,  in  a tone  which  was  in 
sort  stern,  yet  deeply  dejected;  “I  do  not  know  how  to  feign,  and 
had  I suspected  your  sex,  I certainly  should  not  have  insisted,  as  I 
did,  on  persuading  you  to  stay  with  me.  There  was,  indeed,  a vague 
report — a suspicion  which  made  me  smile— in  the  neighboring  village, 
and  even  among  my  own  people,  so  obstinately  did  I self-deceive  my- 
self on  your  account.  They  said  that  one  of  the  young  musicians 
who  sang  on  the  patron-saint’s  day  of  the  village,  was  a woman  in 
disguise.  But  then  it  was  replied,  that  this  was  a piece  of  Gottleib’s 
spite,  to  annoy  and  alarm  the  curate.  In  a word,  I actually  contra- 
dicted that  report  myself,  to  the  utmost.  You  see  that  I was  com- 
pletely your  dupe,  and  that  we  will  take  care  not  to  be  so  again.” 

44  There  was  much  misapprehension,”  replied  Consuelo,  with  the 
assurance  of  real  dignity;  “ but  there  was  no  dupe,  Monsieur  Canon. 

I do  not  think  I even  overstepped  for  one  moment  the  limits  of  the 
respect  I owe  you,  and  the  proprieties  which  honor  imposes.  I was 
travelling  on  the  road  by  night,  with  no  place  where  I might  lodge;  I 
was  worn  out  with  fatigue  and  thirst,  after  a long  day’s  travel  on  foot. 
You  wTould  not  have  refused  your  hospitality  to  a mere  beggar.  You 
granted  it  to  me  in  the  name  of  music,  and  in  mude  I discharged 
my  debt  to  you.  If  I did  not  set  off  without  regard  to  your  wishes  on 
the  next  morning,  it  is  because  unforeseen  circumstances  occurred 
which  dictated  to  me  duties  superior  to  all  others.  My  enemy,  my 
rival,  my  persecutress  fell,  as  it  were,  from  the  clouds  at  your  door, 
destitute  and  devoid  of  help ; she  had  a right  to  my  cares  and  my 
assistance.  Your  reverence  must  needs  remember  the  rest;  you  well 
know  that  if  I profited  by  your  goodness,  it  was  not  for  my  own 
advantage.  You  know  that  I went  my  own  way  so  soon  as  my  duty 
was  accomplished;  and  if  I return  to-day  to  thank  you  in  person  for 
the  goodness  with  which  you  have  overwhelmed  me,  it  is  because 
honor  made  it  my  duty  myself  to  undeceive  you,  and  to  furnish  you 
with  those  explanations  which  are  necessary  to  our  mutual  dignity.” 

“ There  is  something  very  extraordinary  and  very  mysterious  in  all 
tills  ” said  the  canon,  half  conquered.  44  You  say  that  the  miserable 
woman  whose  child  I have  adopted,  is  your  enemy — your  rival.  Who 
are  you  then,  yourself,  Bertoni  ? Pardon  me,  if  that  name  keeps  re* 
taming  to  my  lips,  and  tell  me  what  I am  to  call  you  in  fhtura.” 

*1  am  called  the  Porporina,”  replied  Consuelo:  “I  am  a pupil  of 
Porpora — a eautatrlee,  and  attached  to  tha  theatr  * 


eon  ausL®. 


4X8 

* Ah  I It  is  well ! ” said  the  canon  with  a deep  sigh.  “ I ought  Id 
hare  guessed  it  from  the  manner  in  which  you  played  your  part ; and, 
m regards  your  prodigious  talent  for  music,  I am  no  longer  surprised. 
Ton  have  been  brought  up  in  an  excellent  school.  May  I ask  whether 
Beppo  is  your  brother  or  your  husband  ? ” 

u Neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  He  is  my  brother  by  adoption,  no 
more,  Monsieur  Canon ; and  if  my  soul  had  not  felt  itself  to  be  as 
chaste  and  spotless  as  your  own,  I had  not  sullied  the  sanctity  of  ycur 
dwelling  by  my  presence.” 

Consuelo  had,  to  speak  the  truth,  an  irresistible  accent;  and  the 
canon  felt  its  power,  as  all  pure  and  upright  souls  ever  feel  the  power 
of  sincerity.  He  felt,  as  it  were,  consoled  beneath  a weight  of  woe ; 
and  as  he  walked  slowly  between  his  two  young  proteges,  he  ques- 
tioned Consuelo  with  a sweetness  and  renewed  affection,  which  she 
gradually  ceased  to  resist,  even  in  imagination.  She  related  to  him 
rapidly,  though  without  mentioning  names,  the  principal  circumstan- 
ces of  her  life;  her  betrothal  with  Anzoleto  beside  her  mother’s 
death-bed;  his  infidelity ; the  hatred  of  Corilla;  the  infamous  designs 
of  Zustiniani,  and  her  departure  from  Venice;  the  attachment  which 
Count  Albert  had  formed  for  her ; the  offers  of  the  family  of  Rudol- 
stadt;  her  own  hesitation;  her  flight  from  the  Giants’  Castle;  her 
meeting  with  Joseph  Haydn ; her  journey;  her  fright  and  compassion 
by  Corilla’s  bed-side ; her  gratitude  for  the  protection  granted  by  the 
canon  to  Anzoleto’s  child ; and,  to  conclude,  her  return  to  Vienna, 
and  even  the  interview  she  had  had  with  Maria  Theresa.  Joseph 
had  never  till  this  moment  heard  the  whole  of  Consuelo’s  history. 
She  had  never  spoken  to  him  of  Anzoleto,  and  the  few  words  which 
she  now  let  fall  concerning  her  by-gone  love  for  that  worthless  wretch 
made  but  slight  impression  on  him ; but  her  generosity  toward  Corilla, 
and  her  solicitude  for  the  child,  moved  him  so  deeply  that  he  turned 
away  to  conceal  his  tears.  The  canon  could  not  restrain  his  own. 
The  narrative  of  Consuelo — concise,  energetic,  and  sincere — produced 
the  same  effect  on  him  as  the  reading  of  a fine  romance  would  have 
done,  but  he  had  never  read  a romance,  and  this  was  the  first  roman- 
tic tale  which  had  ever  in  his  life  initiated  in  him  the  lively  emotions 
which  we  derive  from  the  adventures  of  others.  He  had  seated  him- 
self on  a turf  bank,  in  order  to  listen  the  more  at  his  ease,  and  when 
the  young  girl  ceased,  he  cried  out — “ If  this  be  true,  as  I am  satisfied 
it  is,  you  are  a pure  and  holy  girl — you  are  a St.  Cecilia,  returned  to 
this  world.” 

“ Now,  Monsieur  Canon,”  said  Consuelo  rising,  “ tell  me  the  news 
of  Angela  before  I take  my  leave  of  your  reverence.” 

“ Angela  is  very  well,  and  comes  on  wonderfully,”  replied  the  canon. 
“ ty  gardener’s  wife  takes  great  care  of  her,  and  I see  her  constantly 
giving  her  the  air  in  the  garden.  She  will  grow  among  the  flowers, 
like  another  flower  under  my  eyes ; and  when  the  time  shall  be  come 
to  make  a Christian  soul  of  her,  I will  not  stint  its  cultivation.  Re- 
pose that  trust  in  me,  my  children.  What  I have  promised  in  the  face 
of  heaven  that  will  I religiously  perform.  It  seems,  madam,  that  her 
mother  will  not  dispute  this  care  with  us;  for  although  she  is  no  far- 
ther off  than  Vienna,  she  has  not  once  sent  to  ask  for  tidings  of  her 
daughter.” 

“She  may  have  done  so  indirertly,  and  without  your  hearing  of  it,” 
answered  Consuelo.  “ I cann  )t  relieve  that  a mother  is  indifferent 
om  such  a point  But  Corilla  is  struggling  for  an  engagement  at  the 


CONSUELOi 


427 


Cfoart  Theatre;  she  knows  that  her  Majesty  is  very  strict  on  the 
point  of  morals,  and  never  grants  her  protection  to  persons  of  ques* 
tionable  repute.  It  is  her  interest  to  conceal  her  faults,  at  least  until 
her  engagement  has  been  signed.  Let  us,  therefore,  keep  her  secret/ 
“ And  yet  she  is  opposing  you  to  the  utmost ! ” cried  J oseph ; “ and 
they  say  she  will  carry  the  day  through  her  intrigues— that  she  is  de- 
faming you  throughout  the  city,  and  that  she  represents  you  every- 
where as  the  mistress  of  Zustiniani.  This  has  been  spoken  of  at  the 
embassy.  Keller  told  me  so.  They  were  very  indignant  there,  hut  fear- 
ed that  she  would  persuade  Monsieur  de  Kaunitz,  who  is  very  fond  of 
such  gossip  as  that,  and  never  ceases  from  praising  the  beauty  of  Co- 
rilla.” 

“ She  has  said  such  things  of  me ! ” cried  Consuelo,  blushing  with 
indignation ; but  then  she  added,  calmly,  “ it  was,  however,  sure  to 
be  so ; I ought  to  have  expected  it.” 

“ But  there  is  but  one  word  needed  to  overthrow  all  her  calumnies, 

and  that  word  I will  utter,”  said  Joseph.  “ I will  proclaim  that ” 

u You  will  proclaim  nothing,  Beppo;  it  would  be  a piece  of  coward- 
ice, of  barbarity.  You  will  not  mention  it  either,  Monsieur  Canon, 
and  if  I had  wished  to  do  so,  you  would  have  prevented  me,  would 
you  not  ? ” 

“ A truly  evangelical  soul ! ” cried  the  canon.  “ But  consider,  pray, 
that  this  secret  cannot,  by  its  nature,  be  preserved  for  any  very  long 
time.  It  will  be  sufficient  that  my  servant,  or  any  peasant  of  all 
those  that  know  the  facts,  should  utter  one  word,  and  it  will  be  made 
public  that  the  chaste  Gorilla  has  been  brought  to  a bed  of  a child 
without  a father,  and  that  she  has  abandoned  it  into  the  bargain.” 

“ Within  a fortnight  either  Corilla  or  I shall  have  obtained  an  en- 
gagement. I would  not  carry  the  day  over  her  by  an  act  of  ven- 
geance. Until  that  time,  Beppo,  silence,  or  I withdraw  from  you  both 
my  esteem  and  friendship.  And  now  adieu,  Monsieur  le  Canon ; tell 
me  that  you  pardon  me — give  me  once  more  your  paternal  hand — 
and  I withdraw  before  your  people  have  recognised  my  features  in 
this  garb.” 

“ My  people  may  say  what  they  please,  and  my  benefice  may  go  to 
the  devil,  if  it  be  agreeable  to  heaven  so  to  dispose  of  it.  I have  re- 
ceived of  late  a little  inheritance,  which  gives  me  courage  to  brave  the 
thunders  of  the  ordinary.  . Therefore,  my  children,  do  not  mistake  me 
for  a saint;  I am  tired  of  obeying,  and  of  being  constrained  on  all 
sides;  I choose  to  live  straightforwardly,  and  to  have  done  with 
childish  fears.  Since  I have  no  longer  Bridget’s  sceptre  at  my 
elbow,  and  still  more,  since  I feel  that  I have  an  independent  fort- 
une, 1 feel  myself  as  brave  as  a lion.  Now,  then,  come  and  break- 
fast with  me ; we  will  baptize  Angela  afterward,  and  then  we  will 
have  music  till  dinner  time.” 

He  hurried  them  into  the  priory,  and  called  aloud  to  his  valets  as  he 
entered,  “ He  i,  Andrew,  Joseph,  come  and  seb  Signor  Bertoni  rneta- 
morphosed  inte  a lady.  You  would  not  have  expected  that,  hey? 
No,  nor  I either.  Well,  make  haste  and  get  over  your  surprise,  and 
set  coveis  for  us  as  quickly  as  you  can.” 

The  repast  was  exquisite,  and  our  young  people  speedily  perceived 
that  if  certain  grave  changes  had  been  worked  in  the  character  of  the 
worthy  canon,  it  was  not  in  reference  to  his  appreciation  of  good 
cheer.  The  child  was  then  carried  into  the  chapel  of  the  priory.  The 
canon  laid  aside  his  doublet,  ; ltfcing  on  his  smwk.  and  surplice 


CONSUELO. 


418 

performed  the  ceremony.  Consuelo  and  J >seph  filled  the  station*  «f 

Sod-father  and  god-mother,  and  the  name  of  Angela  was  confirmed  te 
tie  little  girl.  The  rest  of  the  afternoon  was  devoted  to  music,  and 
then  followed  the  leave-taking.  The  canon  was  mortified  at  his  ina- 
bility to  detain  his  friends  to  dinner,  but  he  yielded  to  their  arguments, 
and  consoled  himself  with  the  idea  of  seeing  them  often  in  Vienna, 
where  he  proposed  to  come  and  spend  a portion  of  the  winter.  While 
they  were  harnessing  the  carriage,  he  led  them  to  the  hot-house,  in 
order  to  make  them  admire  some  new  plants,  with  which  he  had  ec« 
riched  his  collection.  The  day  was  closing,  but  the  canon,  all  whose 
senses  were  highly  cultivated,  had  made  but  a few  steps  under  the 
crystal  roof  of  his  transparent  palace,  when  he  cried  out,  “ I discover 
here  an  extraordinary  perfume.  Can  the  vanilla-scented  gladislus 
have  flowered  ? But  no,  it  is  not  the  aroma  of  my  gladislus.  The 
strelitzas  are  scentless ; the  perfume  of  the  cyclamens  is  less  pure  and 
less  penetrating  than  this.  What  can  have  happened  here  ? If  my 
volkameria  were  not  dead,  I should  think  that  this  was  it.  Alas  ! 
poor  plant  1 I will  think  of  it  no  more  I ” 

But  on  a sudden  the  good  canon  gave  a great  start,  and  uttered  a 
cry  of  surprise  and  admiration  as  he  saw,  standing  before  him  in  a 
large  tub,  the  finest  volkameria  he  had  ever  beheld  in  all  his  life,  all 
covered  with  clusters  of  little  white  roses,  centred  with  pink,  the 
sweet  perfume  of  which  filled  the  whole  hot-house,  and  overpowered 
all  the  commoner  odors  which  reigned  around  it. 

“Is  this  a prodigy?  Whence  is  this  foretaste  of  Paradise — this 
flower  from  the  garden  of  Beatrice  ? ” he  exclaimed,  in  a poetic  rap- 
ture. 

“ We  have  brought  it  hither  in  our  carriage,  with  all  care  imagina- 
ble,” said  Consuelo.  “ Permit  us  to  offer  it  to  you  in  reparation  of  a 
horrible  imprecation  which  escaped  my  lips  on  a certain  day,  and 
which  I shall  repent  so  long  as  I live.” 

“ Oh  1 my  dear  daughter,  what  a gift  1 — and  with  what  delicacy  is  it 
not  offered  I Oh  I beloved  volkameria,  you  shall  have  a particular 
name,  such  as  I am  in  the  habit  of  giving  to  the  most  splendid  indi- 
viduals of  my  collections.  You  shall  be  called  Bertoni,  in  order  to 
consecrate  the  memory  of  a being  who  exists  no  longer,  but  whom  I 
yet  loved  with  the  affection  of  a father.” 

“ Nay,  good  father,”  said  Consuelo,  pressing  his  hand,  “ you  ought 
to  accustom  yourself  to  love  your  daughters  as  much  as  your  sons . 
Angela  is  not  a boy.” 

“ And  la  Porporina  Is  my  daughter  also,”  said  the  canon.  “ Yes, 
my  daughter — my  daughter,”  he  repeated,  looking  alternately  at  Con- 
suelo and  the  Bertoni  volkameria  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

At  six  o’clock  in  the  evening  Consuelo  and  Joseph  had  entered 
their  own  house ; the  carriage  had  set  them  down  at  the  entrance  of 
their  suburb,  and  nothing  betrayed  their  innocent  escapade.  Porpora 
was  only  astonished  that  Consuelo  had  not  a better  appetite  after  her 
drive  through  the  beautiful  meadows  which  surround  the  capital  of 
the  empire,  but  the  canon’s  breakfast  had  perhaps  rendered  Consuelo 
a little  dainty  that  day ; the  fine  air,  however,  and  the  exercise  she 
bad  taken,  secured  her  a good  night’s  rest,  and  on  the  morrow  she 
felt  herself  in  better  health  and  courage  that  she  had  been  since  the 
anlred  at  Vienna, 


CONSUELO, 


m 


CHAPTER  LXXXYIL 

Amid  the  unrertainty  of  her  destiny,  Consuelo  expecting  perhaps 
to  find  an  excuse  or  motive  in  her  own  heart,  determined  to  write  at 
once  to  Count  Christian  of  Rudolstadt,  to  inform  him  of  her  relations 
to  Porpora.  of  the  efforts  the  latter  had  made  to  induce  her  to  return 
» to  the  theatre,  and  that  she  hoped  yet  to  be  able  to  disappoint  his  ex- 
pectations. She  spoke  to  him  in  full  sincerity,  and  made  a display  of 
all  the  gratitude,  devotion,  and  submission,  which  was  due  her  old 
master.  Making  him  the  confidant  of  all  her  apprehensions  in  relation 
to  Albert,  she  besought  him  at  once  to  dictate  a letter  to  the  lat- 
ter, the  effect  of  which  would  be  to  procure  him  calm  and  quiet. 
She  concluded  it  thus : — “ I ask  your  lordship  to  grant  me  time  to 
look  into  my  own  heart,  and  to  make  up  my  own  mind.  I am  re- 
solved to  keep  my  word,  and  can  swear  before  God  that  I am  able  to 
close  my  heart  and  mind  to  every  new  phantasy  and  to  every  new 
affection.  If,  though,  I return  to  the  theatre,  I act  in  such  a manner 
as  to  violate  every  promise,  and  renounce  all  hope  of  being  able  to 
keep  my  obligations ; let  your  lordship  judge  me,  or  rather  the  destiny 
which  compels  me  and  the  duty  which  commands  me.  From  you 
I expect  more  than  from  my  own  reason.  Can  it,  however,  contra- 
dict my  conscience?” 

When  this  letter  was  sealed  and  given  to  Joseph,  Consuelo  felt 
more  calm,  as  always  happens  when  people  are  in  difficulty  and  are 
able  to  gain  time  or  postpone  a crisis.  She  then  prepared  to  pay  a 
visit  with  Porpora,  which  he  thought  most  important  and  decisive, 
to  the  much  bepraised  imperial  poet,  the  Abbe  Metastasio. 

This  illustrious  personage  was  then  about  fifty  years  of  age.  His 
face  was  handsome,  his  address  was  graceful,  and  his  conversation 
charming.  Consuelo  would  have  entertained  the  greatest  sympathy 
for  him,  but  for  the  fact  that  in  entering  the  house  the  separate  sto- 
ries of  which  were  inhabited  by  the  imperial  poet  and  the  wig-maker 
Keller,  she  had  the  following  conversation. 

“ Consuelo,  (Porpora  speaks,)  you  are  about  to  see  a handsome  man, 
with  a keen  black  eye,  a ruddy  complexion,  and  a fresh  and  smiling 
lip.  He  insists  on  subjecting  himself  to  a slow  and  dangerous  mal- 
ady. He  eats,  sleeps,  toils,  and  grows  fat,  just  as  any  one  else  does; 
yet,  he  feigns  to  suffer  from  want  of  sleep,  appetite,  debility,  and  ma* 
rasmus.  Do  not  be  so  ignorant,  as,  when  he  complains  of  illness,  to 
tell  him  that  he  has  none,  that  he  looks  well,  or  any  other  similar 
fatuity.  He  wishes  people  to  pity  him,  and  is  unhappy  that  people  do 
not  put  on  mourning  for  him  before  he  dies.  Do  not,  though,  speak 
to  him  of  death,  or  of  any  one  that  is  dead,  for  he  fears  to  die.  Do 
not  when  you  leave  him,  be  so  stupid  as  to  say : — ‘ I hope  when  I see 
you  again  your  health  will  be  better* 9 for  he  wishes  all  to  think  he  is 
dying,  and  could  he  persuade  others  that  he  is  dead  he  would  be  too 
well  satisfied,  provided  always  tuat  he  were  well  satisfied  himself  that 
he  is  really  alive.” 

“ That  is  a foolish  mania  for  a great  man,”  said  Consuelo.  “ What 
can  one  say,  if  he  will  be  neither  dead  nor  alive  ? ” 

“ Speak  to  him  of  his  disease,  ask  him  a thousand  questions,  listen 
to  a description  of  all  his  sufferings  and  troubles ; and  in  conclusion 
•ay,  that  he  is  to'}  careless  of  himself,  that  he  is  too  negligent,  and 
works  too  hard.  By  talking  in  this  manner  we  shall  win  his  favor. 


" Do  we  not  go  to  ask  him  to  write  a song,  music  te  which  vera  will 
compose,  and  which  1 will  sing?  How  can  we  at  once  advise  hh» 
not  to  write,  and  then  ask  k m to  write  for  us  ? ” 

“ In  the  course  of  conversation  all  this  will  come  right.  We  hate 
only  to  arrange  matters  beforehand.,, 

The  maestro  wished  his  pupil  to  make  herself  agreeable  to  the 
poet.  The  natural  caustic  vein  of  his  temperament  did  not  permit 
bin  to  restrain  the  ridiculous  points  of  the  disposition  of  others,  and 
he  was  awkward  enough  to  prepare  Consuelo  for  a rigid  examination, 
and  for  a perfect  contempt  which  we  always  feel  for  those  who  insist 
on  being  flattered  and  admired.  Incapable  of  adulation  and  deceit, 
she  suffered  when  she  heard  Porpora  speak  of  the  poet’s  distresses 
and  thus  cruelly  ridicule  his  imaginary  sufferings.  Often  she  blushea 
and  maintained  a painful  silence  in  spite  of  her  master’s  telegraphic 
efforts  to  induce  her  to  second  him. 

The  reputation  of  Consuelo  began  to  be  known  at  Vienna;  she  had 
sung  in  many  salons , and  her  admission  into  the  Italian  opera  was  an  hy- 
potheosis  which  not  a little  agitated  all  the  musical  coteries.  Metastasio 
was  all  powerful ; if  by  flattering  his  self-esteem  Consuelo  could  in** 
duce  him  to  sympathise  with  her,  he  would  confide  to  Porpora  the  task 
of  writing  music  for  Attileo  Begolo , which  he  had  completed  and 
kept  many  years  in  his  desk.  The  pupil  then  must  exert  her  influ* 
ence  for  the  master,  who  did  not  at  all  please  the  imperial  poet. 

Metastasio  was  a true  Italian,  and  people  of  that  country  are  not  so 
easily  deceived  as  some  others.  He  had  penetration  enough  to  know 
Porpora  had  but  a moderate  admiration  for  his  dramatic  genius,  and 
that  more  than  once  (either  right  or  wrong)  he  had  criticised  his 
timidity  and  his  exaggerated  sensibility.  The  icy  reserve  of  Consuelo, 
the  little  sympathy  she  entertained  for  his  sickness,  did  not  seem  that 
they  really  were  the  awkwardness  respectful  pity  always  inspires.  He 
almost  looked  on  it  as  an  insult,  and  but  for  his  politeness  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  would  have  positively  refused  to  hear  her  sing. 
After  a trifling  of  some  minutes  he  consented,  making  an  excuse  of 
the  excitability  of  his  nerves  and  his  fear  of  excitement.  He  had 
heard  Consuelo  sing  his  oratorio  of  Judith.  It  was  necessary  for  him 
to  hear  her  in  scenic  music.  Porpora  was  anxious  too  that  ho  should. 

* What,  though,  shall  I do,  and  what  shall  I sing,”  said  Consuelo  in 
a low  tone,  “ if  he  is  afraid  of  excitement?  ” 

* Excite  him,”  said  the  maestro ; " he  should  be  aroused  from  his 
torpor,  because  then  he  feels  like  writing.” 

Consuelo  sang  an  air  from  Achillo  in  Sciro , which  had  been  ai> 
ranged  by  Caldara,  in  1730,  and  which  was  the  best  dramatic  work  of 
Metastasio.  It  had  been  performed  on  the  occasion  of  the  marriage 
of  Maria  Theresa.  Metastasio  was  as  much  amazed  by  her  voice  and 
method  as  when  he  first  heard  her.  He  resolved,  though,  to  main- 
tain the  same  cold  silence  she  had  exhibited  when  he  spoke  of  his 
health.  He  could  not  succeed,  for  notwithstanding  all,  he  was  an 
artist,  and  a noble  heart  beat  in  his  bosom.  Besides,  when  a good 
interpreter  makes  the  accents  of  a part  vibrate,  and  recalls  to  him  the 
recollection  of  his  triumphs,  he  cannot  be  offended. 

The  Abbe  Metastasio  attempted  to  resist  the  all-powerful  charm  of 
her  voice.  He  coughed  and  moved  about  in  his  chair,  like  a man 
overcome  by  suffering.  Suddenly,  though,  as  if  overcome  by  recolieo 
lions  which  were  more  touching  even  than  those  of  his  own  glory,  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  handkerchief,  and  began  to  scb.  Pcnpor% 


CONSUELO. 


who  stood  behind  bis  chair,  made  a sign  to  Consuelo  to  let  him  alone, 
and  rubbed  his  hands  maliciously. 

These  tears  which  were  many  and  sincere,  reconciled  Consuelo  to 
the  abbe.  As  soon  as  she  had  finished  the  air,  she  drew  near  to  kiss 
hi*  hand  and  say,  with  an  expression  he  could  not  resist:  “ Alas!  sir 
how  proud  I would  be  to  have  thus  excited  you,  were  it  not  chat  some 
remorse  hangs  about  my  heart.  I am  afraid  I have  injured  your 
health  and  that  poisons  all  my  joy.” 

“ My  dear  young  lady/’  said  Metastasio,  completely  overcome,  “ you 
do  not,  cannot  know  the  good  and  evil  you  have  done  me.  Never 
before  did  I hear  any  female  voice  which  recalled  to  me  that  of  my 
dear  Marianna ! You  have  so  completely  recalled  both  her  manner 
and  expression  to  me,  that  meth ought  I heard  her.  Ah ! you  have 
crushed  my  very  heart ! ” He  began  to  weep  again. 

“His  lordship  speaks  of  an  illustrious  person  whom  you  should 
always  look  on  as  a model,”  said  Porpora  to  his  pupil.  “ He  speaks 
of  the  celebrated  Marianna  Bulgarini.” 

“£a  Romaninaf”  said  Consuelo.  “Ah!  when  I was  a child,  I 
heard  her  in  Venice;  it  is  the  first  of  my  happy  memories,  and  I 
never  will  forget  her.” 

“ I see,”  said  Metastasio,  “ that  you  have  heard  her,  and  that  she  has 
made  an  ineffaceable  impression  on  you ; my  child,  imitate  her  in 
every  thing,  in  her  play  as  well  as  in  her  voice,  in  her  kindness  as 
well  as  in  her  greatness,  in  her  power  as  well  as  in  her  devotion ! How 
beautiful  she  seemed  in  the  character  of  Venus,  my  first  opera  at 
Rome ; that  was  my  first  triumph.” 

“ And  does  she  owe  her  greatest  success  to  your  lordship  ? ” 

“We  contributed  to  the  fortune  of  each  other.  I could  never, 
though,  discharge  my  obligations  to  her.  Never  did  so  much  love,  so 
much  perseverance,  and  so  many  delicate  cares  inhabit  a mortal  soul. 
Angel  of  my  life,  I will  weep  for  you  always  and  aspire  only  to  re- 
join you  ” Here  Metastasio  wept  again  Consuelo  was  much  moved, 
and  Porpora  pretended  to  be,  though  in  spite  of  every  effort,  his  coun- 
tenance continued  to  be  scornful  as  possible.  Consuelo  observed  this, 
and  resolved  to  reproach  him  for  it.  As  for  Metastasio,  he  saw  only 
the  effect  he  expected  to  produce — emotion  and  admiration  in  Consu- 
elo. He  was  a real  poet:  that  is  to  say,  he  preferred  to  weep  hi  the 
presence  of  others  rather  that  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  room,  and 
was  never  so  much  aware  of  his  sufferings  as  when  he  was  able  to  de 
scribe  them  eloquently.  Led  on  by  the  opportunity,  he  told  Consu 
do  so  much  of  the  early  history  of  his  youth,  in  which  La  Romanina 
had  been  so  conspicuous:  he  told  of  the  many  services  that  generous 
woman  had  rendered  him,  of  her  filial  tenderness  to  her  old  parents, 
and  the  maternal  sacrifice  she  made  in  separating  from  him,  and  send- 
ing him  to  seek  his  fortune  in  Vienna.  When  in  the  choicest  terms 
he  had  told  her  how  his  dear  Marianna,  with  a lacerated  heart  and  in 
sobs,  had  besought  him  to  abandon  her,  and  think  only  of  himself,  he 
said — “ Oh ! had  she  imagined  the  fate  which  awaited  me,  when  separ- 
ated from  her,  had  she  foreseen  the  suffering,  the  terror,  anguish,  con- 
tests, and  reverses,  and  even  the  terrible  disease  I was  to  undergo  here, 
she  would  have  spared  each  of  us  this  terrible  immolation.  Alas ! I 
did  not  think  we  bade  each  other  an  eternal  adieu,  and  that  we 
were  never  to  meet  again  on  earth.” 

“ How — what — did  you  never  meet  again  ? ” said  Consuelo,  whose 
•yes  were  filled  with  tears  The  words  of  Metastasio  had  a wonder- 
ful power  over  her.  “ Did  she  never  come  to  Vienna  ? ” 


482 


C 0 N 8 U K L O, 


u She  never  did,”  said  the  abbe,  completely  overpowered, 

* After  so  much  devotion,  did  she  not  dare  to  come  hither  to  M 
yon?”  said  Consuelo,  perfectly  disregarding  Porpora’s  gestures. 

Metaatasio  was  apparently  absorbed  in  his  own  ideas  and  said  noth- 
ing. 

“ But  she  may  yet  do  so,”  said  Consuelo  candidly.  “ She  sertalnly 
will.  That  would  restore  your  health.” 

The  abbe  grew  pale  and  expressed  the  greatest  terror.  The  maes- 
tro coughed  as  loud  as  he  could,  and  Consuelo  remembering  that  La 
Romanina  had  been  dead  more  than  ten  years,  saw  how  indiscreet 
she  had  been,  by  reminding  the  poet  of  the  departed,  especially  as  he 
hoped  to  meet  her  again  only  in  the  tomb.  She  bit  her  lips,  and  soon 
retired  with  Porpora,  who  bore  away  as  the  fruits  of  this  visit,  only 
vague  promises  and  forced  civilities,  such  as  everybody  receives. 

“ How  stupid  you  have  been ! ” said  he  to  Consuelo  as  soon  as  they 
were  alone. 

“ Yes— yes;  I see  I have  been.  I forgot  that  La  Romanina  is  no 
longer  alive;  think,  maestro,  if  you  please,  that  this  loving  and  heart- 
broken man  is  attached  to  life  as  much  as  you  please;  I,  though,  am 
persuaded  that  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  her  he  loved  is  the  only  cause 
of  his  sickness;  and  that,  though  some  superstitious  terror  makes 
him  tremble  at  death,  he  is  not  the  less  weary  of  life.” 

“ My  child,”  said  Porpora,  “people  who  are  rich,  honored,  flattered, 
and  in  good  health,  are  never  weary  of  life : when  people  have  no 
other  passions  or  cares  than  such  as  he  has,  they  either  do  not  tell  the 
truth,  or  play  a part  when  they  curse  their  existence.” 

“ Tell  me  not  that  he  never  had  any  other  passions.  He  loved  Ma- 
rianna, and  I now  know  why  he  gave  that  name  to  his  god-daughter, 
and  to  his  niece  Marianna  Martiez.”  Consuelo  was  near  saying  the 
pupn  of  Joseph,  but  did  not,  for  she  paused  abruptly. 

“ Go  on,”  said  Porpora : “ his  god-daughter,  his  niece,  or  his  daugh- 
ter.” 

“ People  say  so : but  what  matters  that  ? ” 

u It  would  prove  the  abbe  soon  found  consolation  for  the  absence  of 
her  he  loted:  when,  though,  you  asked  (may  God  forgive  your  stupid- 
ity) why  Marianna  did  not  come  here  to  see  him,  he  did  not  reply.  I 
will,  for  him.  La  Romanina  had  indeed  done  him  the  greatest  service 
which  a man  can  ever  receive  from  a woman.  She  had  led,  lodged, 
dressed,  succored,  and  sustained  him  in  every  condition  of  life.  She 
even  aided  him  in  obtaining  the  position  of  poeta  cesareo . She  became 
the  servant,  the  nurse,  the  benefactress  of  his  old  parents.  All  this  is 
true — Marianna  had  a noble  heart:  I knew  her  well:  it  is  also  true 
that  she  was  very  anxious  to  see  him  again,  and  wished  to  be  received 
at  the  Court  Theatre.  This  also  is  true : the  abbe  took  no  interest  in 
h *'  -md  never  would  permit  her.  True,  the  most  tender  letters  im- 
aginable passed  between  them;  I am  sure  those  of  the  poet  were  ad 
mirabie : so  were  hers,  for  they  werg  printed.  Though  he  said  to  hii 
dilettissima  arnica  that  he  longed  for  the  day  of  their  reunion,  that  he 
toiled  to  bring  about  that  happy  dawn,  Maitre  Renard  managed  so 
well,  that  the  unfortunate  singer  never  chanced  to  subside  into  the 
crowd  of  his  illustrious  and  lucrutare  loves,  nor  to  meet  the  third 
Marianna,  (some  fatality  existed,  connecting  him  with  women  of  that 
name,)  the  noble  and  all  powerful  Countess  of  Athlan,  mistress  of  the 
Jest  Csesar.  All  say  the  result  of  this  affair  was  a secret  marriage; 
and  I therefore  think  16  in  singular  bad  twte  for  him  to  tear  his  hair 


ft*  jAior  Romanina,  whom  he  suffered  to  die  of  chagrin,  while  he  was 
Waiting  madrigals  to  the  ladies  of  the  imperial  court." 

“You  comment  and  decide  on  all  this  like  a cruel  cynic,  my  dear 
maestro,”  said  Consuelo,  with  not  a little  emotion. 

44 1 speak  as  every  one  else  does.  Public  rumor  sustains  all  this 
Bah ! there  are  many  actors  who  belong  to  no  theatre.  That  is  an 
old  proverb.” 

44  Public  rumor  is  not  always  well  informed:  at  all  events,  it  is  never 
very  charitable.  You  see,  maestro,  I cannot  think  a man  so  renown- 
ed and  gifted  is  only  an  actor  playing  his  part.  I have  seen  him  shed 
real  tears ; and  even  though  he  should  reproach  himself  for  having 
forgotten  his  own  Marianna  too  soon,'  remorse  must  increase  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  present  regrets.  I had,  at  all  events,  rather  deem  him 
weak  than  base.  He  was  made  an  abbe,  overwhelmed  with  benefits; 
the  court  was  very  devout,  and  amours  with  actresses  would  have 
given  rise  to  great  scandal.  He  did  not  wish  exactly  to  betray  and 
deceive  la  Bulgarini  ...  He  was  afraid — he  hesitated — he  gained 
time,  and  she  died.” 

44  And,  therefore,  he  thanked  Providence,”  said  the  pitiless  maestro, 

4 4 Now  our  empress  sends  him  boxes  and  rings  with  her  cypher  in 
brilliants,  and  golden  pots  of  Spanish  tobacco ; seals  made  of  one  bril- 
liant, all  of  which  glitter  not  a little  in  the  eyes  of  the  poet,  filled  as 
they  are  with  tears.” 

44  Arid  can  this  console  him  for  having  crushed  la  Romanina’s 
heart  ? ” 

44  Perhaps  not.  Yet,  for  these  trifles,  he  crushed  it ” 

44  A sad  vanity ; for  my  part,  I could  scarcely  keep  from  laughing 
when  he  showed  us  his  golden  chandelier,  with  its  golden  capital,  and 
the  Ingenious  device  the  empress  caused  to  be  engraved  on  it— 

• P&rcfeo  pots*  risparmiar*  l tvoi  oeohi* " 

“ Therefore  was  it  that  he  appreciated  the  compliment,  and  said 
emphatically: — Affettuosa  expressione , valutabile  piu  dell’oro .*  Oh  I 
poor  man  1 ” 

44  Unfortunate  man,”  said  Consuelo,  with  a sigh.  She  returned 
home  very  sad,  for  she  had  involuntarily  compared  the  relation  of 
Marianna  and  Metastasio,  and  herself  and  Albert.  44  To  hope  and  to 
die,”  said  she.  44  Is  this  the  fate  of  those  who  love  passionately? 
To  make  us  wait  and  make  us  die ! Is  this  the  fate  of  those  who  pas- 
sionately pursue  the  chimera  of  glory?  ” 

“Why  muse  thus?”  said  the  maestro.  44 1 think,  in  spite  of  all 
your  indiscretions,  everything  is  as  it  should  be,  and  that  you  have 
overcome  Metastasio.” 

44  The  conquest  of  so  weak  a soul  as  his  is  a poor  triumph.  I fancy 
one  who  was  too  timid  to  receive  la  Bulgarini  in  the  imperial  theatre, 
will  not  have  courage  enough  to  receive  me.” 

44  As  far  as  art  is  concerned,  Metastasio  now  governs  the  empress.” 

44  In  matters  of  art  Metastasio  will  give  the  empress  no  advice  she 
is  apparently  unwilling  to  receive.  It  is  all  nonsense  to  speak  of  the 

favorites  and  counsellors  of  her  majesty I have  seen  the 

features  of  Maria  Theresa,  and  I tell.you,  maestro,  she  is  too  prudent 
to  have  lovers,  and  too  imperious  to  have  friends.” 

44  Well,”  said  Porporar,  in  a thoughtful  manner,  44  we  must  gain  the 
empress  herself.  You  must  sing  some  morning  in  her  apartments,  and 
®he  must  speak  to  and  talk  with  you.  They  say  she  only  loves  virtu- 


484 


CON8UELO. 


qua  persons;  ini  t she  has  the  eagle  eye  people  say,  she  will  appreefc 
ate  and  love  yoa  I will  at  once  go  to  work  so  that  I may  bring  yoa 
ttt»4~t*te.» 


CHAPTER  LXXXYIIL 

Owe  morning,  when  Joseph  was  sweeping  the  antechamber  of 
Porpora,  he  forgot  that  the  room  was  small,  and  the  maestro’s  slunw 
bers  light,  and  he  sang  aloud  a musical  phrase  which  occurred  to  him, 
to  which,  with  his  brush,  he  kept  up  a kind  of  accompaniment.  Por- 

Eora,  offended  at  being  awakened  before  his  time,  turned  over  in  his 
ed  and  sought  to  go  to  sleep ; but  as  he  was  pursued  by  this  beauti* 
fill  and  fresh  voice,  which  sang  a phrase  of  much  expression  and 
beauty,  he  put  on  his  robe  de  chambre , and  looked  through  the  key- 
hole, half  pleased  and  half  offended,  also,  at  the  idea  of  any  one  ven- 
turing to  compose  in  his  room  before  he  chose  to  get  up.  How  great 
was  his  surprise  to  hear  Beppo  singing  and  drumming,  following  out 
his  idea,  while  he  seemed  intent  on  domestic  cares. 

“ What  is  that  you  are  singing,”  said  the  maestro,  in  a loud  voice, 
as  he  threw  open  the  door.  Joseph,  confused  as  a man  might  be  who 
was  suddenly  awakened,  threw  down  his  broom  and  bunch  of  feath- 
ers, and  was  about  to  leave  the  house  rapidly  as  he  could.  But  for  a 
long  time,  he  had  abandoned  the  hope  of  becoming  Porpora’s  pupil, 
yet  delighted  in  hearing  the  studies  of  Consuelo  and  the  maestro,  and 
In  receiving  secretly  the  instruction  of  that  kind  friend,  when  Porpora 
was  absent.  He  would  not  then  on  any  account  have  been  dismissed ; 
and  to  remove  any  suspicion,  determined  at  once  to  tell  a falsehood. 

“ What  am  I singing? ” said  he,  looking  down.  “ Alas  1 maestro,  I 
do  not  know.” 

“ Does  any  man  sing  anything  he  does  not  know  ? You  do  not  tell 
the  truth.” 

“ I assure  you,  maestro,  I do  not.  You  terrified  me  so  much,  that  I 
have  already  forgotten.  I know  it  was  wrong  to  sing  so  near  your 
room,  and  was  so  engrossed  that  I thought  myself  far  away.  I said, 
now  you  can  sing,  for  there  is  no  one  near  to  hear  you,  and  say  Hush, 
you  sing  false : you  could  not  learn  music.” 

**  Who  said  you  sang  false  ? ” 

“ Everybody.” 

u Well,”  said  the  maestro,  in  a stern  voice,  “ I say  you  do  not  Who 
tried  to  teach  you  music  ? ” 

“ Why,  Maestro  Reuter,  whom  my  friend  Keller  shaves,  and  who, 
after  one  lesson,  bade  me  go  about  my  business,  saying  I was  an  ass.” 
Joseph  knew  enough  of  the  maestro  to  be  aware  that  he  had  no 
great  respect  for  Reuter;  and  on  this  allusion  to  him,  placed  no  small 
reliance  as  a stepping-stone  to  the  good  graces  of  Porpora,  though  he 
expected  the  latter  to  be  useful  to  him.  Reuter,  though,  in  his  visits^ 
never  deigned  to  notice  his  old  pupil. 

“ Master  Reuter  is  an  ass  himself,”  muttered  Porpora.  “ That, 
though,  is  not  the  question,”  said  he  aloud.  “ I wish  you  to  tell  me 
where  you  fished  out  that  passage;  ” and  he  sang  the  one  Joseph  had, 
perhaps,  sang  ten  times  without  thinking  of  it. 
u Qh,  that!”  said  Haydn,  who  had  begun  to  form  a bettor  opinion 


c*b  n s u e l o.  485 

of  the  disposition  of  his  master,  though  he  was  not  yet  sure  of  it;  “It 
is  something  I have  heard  la  signora  sing.” 

“ Ah  1 Consuelo  ? my  daughter  ? I did  not  know  that  Then  yon 
listen  at  this  door  ? ” 

“No,  monsieur;  but  the  music  is  heard  in  all  the  rooms,  even  in 
the  kitchen,  and  people  must  hear.” 

“ I do  not  like  to  be  served  by  persons  with  such  a memory,  and 
who,  perhaps  will  shout  out  my  unpublished  ideas  in  the  streets. 
Pack  up  your  things  to-day,  and  in  the  evening  seek  another  place.” 

This  blow  fell  like  a thunderbolt  on  poor  Joseph,  who  went  to  the 
kitchen  in  tears.  Consuelo  soon  heard  the  story  of  his  misfortune, 
and  restored  his  confidence  by  promising  to  regulate  matters. 

“ What,  maestro,”  said  she  to  Porpora,  as  she  handed  him  his  oof- 
fee,  “ would  you  dismiss  the  poor  lad,  who  is  laborious  and  faithful, 
because  probably  for  once  in  his  life,  he  did  not  sing  false  ? ” 

I tell  you  that  servant  is  a meddlesome  fellow,  and  a liar — that  he 
has  been  induced  by  some  enemy  of  mine  to  enter  my  service,  so  as 
to  obtain  the  secret  of  my  compositions,  and  appropriate  them  before 
they  are  published.  I venture  to  swear  the  fellow  already  knows  my 
new  opera  by  heart,  and  copies  the  manuscripts  as  soon  as  my  back  is 
turned.  How  many  of  my  ideas  have  I not  found  in  those  pretty  op- 
eras which  turned  the  heads  of  all  Venice,  while  mine  were  swept 
away;  and  people  said, — ‘ That  old  fellow,  Porpora,  gives  us  new  ope- 
ras, the  airs  of  which  are  sung  at  every  corner. 9 Now  this  morning 
the  fool  betrayed  himself,  and  sang  a phrase  which  certainly  comes 
from  Mynheer  Hasse,  of  which  I have  made  a note ; and  to  avenge 
myself,  will  put  it  in  my  new  opera,  to  repay  the  trick  he  has  so  often 
played  me.” 

“ Be  careful,  maestro ; that  phrase  has,  perhaps,  been  published. 
You  do  not  know  all  our  cotemporary  publications  by  heart.” 

“ I have  heard  them,  though ; and  I tell  you  it  is  too  remarkable  for 
me  to  forget  it.” 

“ Well,  maestro,  thank  you  for  the  compliment,  for  the  phrase  is 
mine.” 

This  was  not  true,  for  the  phrase  in  question  had  that  very  morn- 
ing been  shut  up  in  the  head  of  Haydn.  She,  though,  had  already 
learned  it,  in  order  to  be  able  to  conquer  the  distrustful  investigations 
of  the  maestro.  Porpora  asked  her  to  sing  it.  She  did  so  at  once, 
pretending  that  she  had  tried  to  arrange  it  on  the  previous  evening, 
to  gratify  the  Abbe  Metastasio;  the  first  verses  of  his  pretty  pastorsd’ 

“ Gin  reide  la  primavera, 

Col  suo  florito  aspetto  ; 

Gla  il  grato  zeffiretto 
Bcherza  fra  l’e<rbe  © 1 fieri. 

Tornan  le  frond  i agli  albert 
L’erbeUe  al  prato  tornan* ; 

Bel  non  ritorna  a me 
La  paee  del  mlo  cor." 

“ I had  repeated  my  first  phrase  frequently,  when  I heard  in  the 
ante-chamber  Master  Beppo  singing  it  as  valorously  as  possible.  I beg- 
ged him  to  hush.  After  about  an  hour  I heard  him  singing  it  on  the 
stairway,  so  completely  disfigured  that  I got  out  of  humor  with  it.” 

“ How,  then,  is  it  that  he  sings  so  well  to-day?  What  has  happen* 
ed  in  his  sleep  ? ” 

“ l wifi  explain,  maestro.  I observed  the  lad  had  a strong  and  eves 


CONSUELO. 


4 36 

an  accurate  voice,  but  sang  falsely,  from  a bad  ear,  mind,  or  memory 
I amused  myself  by  making  him  go  through  the  scales,  after  youi 
method,  to  see  whether  that  would  succeed  in  a person  with  the  mu- 
sical faculty  but  partially  developed. 

“ It  will  always  succeed,”  said  Porpora.  “ There  is  no  such  thing 
as  a false  voice  and  an  ear  which  is  practiced—” 

44  Precisely  what  I say,”  said  Consuelo,  who  was  anxious  to  come  to 
the  end.  “ That  is  precisely  what  has  happened — at  the  conclusion 
of  the  first  lesson  I had  taught  him  what  Reuter  and  all  those  Ger- 
mans never  could  have  given  him  an  idea  of.  I then  sang  my  compo- 
sition to  him,  and  for  the  first  time  he  repeated  it  precisely  correct. 
It  was  a perfect  revelation  to  him.”  ‘Ah!  mademoiselle/  said  he, 
4 had  I been  taught  thus,  perhaps  I would  have  been  able  to  learn  like 
others.  I will  confess,  though,  that  I never  could  understand  the  in- 
structions at  St.  Stephen’s/  ” 

44  He  has  then  really  been  to  that  institution  ? ” 

44  Yes;  and  was  expelled  with  disgrace;  you  need  only  to  ask  Reu- 
ter. He  will  tell  you  that  Joseph  is  a hard  case,  and  that  it  is  musi- 
cally impossible  to  form  him.” 

44  Come  hither  you,”  said  Porpora  to  Beppo,  who  stood  behind  the 
door  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  44  Place  yourself  beside  me,  and  let  me 
find  out  if  you  understood  the  lesson  you  received  yesterday.” 

The  malicious  maestro  then  began  to  teach  Joseph  the  elements 
of  music  in  the  confused,  pedantic  and  involved  manner  which  is 
peculiar  to  the  Germans. 

Had  Joseph,  who  knew  too  much,  not  too  fully  comprehended  the 
elements,  in  spite  of  Porpora’s  efforts  to  make  them  obscure,  and 
suffered  his  knowledge  to  appear,  he  would  have  been  lost.  He  was 
shrewd  enough  to  perceive  the  snare  set  for  him,  and  exhibited  such 
resolute  stupidity,  that  after  a long  and  obstinate  contest,  the  maestro 
was  completely  satisfied. 

44 1 see  that  your  powers  are  very  small,”  said  the  latter  as  he  arose 
and  continued  a deception  of  which  the  others  were  not  the  dupes. 
44  Take  up  your  broom  again,  and  if  you  wish  to  continue  in  my  ser- 
vice, never  try  to  sing.” 

After  a lapse  of  about  two  hours,  whether  he  was  stimulated  by  a 
desire  to  return  to  an  art  which  he  had  long  neglected,  Porpora  re- 
membered that  he  was  a singing  master,  and  recalled  Joseph  to  the 
stool.  He  explained  to  him  the  same  principles,  but  now  did  so  dis- 
tinctly, with  that  powerful  and  deep  logic  which  moves  and  classifies 
all  things ; in  one  word,  with  that  wonderful  rapidity  of  which  men 
of  genius  alone  are  capable. 

Now  Haydn  saw  that  he  might  appear  to  understand,  and  Porpora 
was  enchanted  by  his  triumph.  Though  the  maestro  taught  him 

things  he  had  long  studied  and  knew  as  well  as  possible,  this  lesson 
was  of  a positively  certain  use  to  him ; it  taught  him  how  to  teach ; 
and  as  at  times  when  Porpora  did  not  need  him,  he  gave  music  lessons 
in  the  city,  he  resolved  to  make  use  of  this  excellent  demonstration  as 
a means  of  preserving  his  patrons. 

44  Well,  maestro,”  said  he  to  Porpora,  continuing  to  keep  up  the  by- 
play until  the  end  of  the  lesson,  44 1 like  this  music  better  than  the 
other,  and  think  I can  learn  it;  but  as  for  this  morning’s  lesson,  I 
had  rather  go  back  to  Saint  Stephen’s  than  attempt  to  learn  it.” 

44It  is,  though,  what  you  were  taught  at  that  institution.  Are  there 
two  musics  ?— no  more  than  there  are  two  Gods,” 


CONSDELO  437 

M I beg  your  pardon,  maestro ; there  Is  the  music  of  Reuter,  which 
tires  me  to  death,  and  yours  which  does  not ” 

“ I thank  yofi  for  your  compliment,  Signor  Beppo,”  said  Porpora, 
not  at  all  displeased  at  the  compliment. 

Thenceforth  Porpora  gave  Haydn  lessons,  and  they  soon  reached 
the  lessons  of  Italian  song  and  the  first  ideas  of  lyrical  composition. 
He  made  such  rapid  progress  that  the  maestro  was  at  once  charmed, 
mazed  and  surprised.  When  Consuelo  saw  his  old  suspicions  about 
to  spring  up  again,  she  advised  Haydn  how  to  act  so  as  to  dissipate 
them — a little  apparent  neglect,  a feigned  pre-occupation  were  some- 
times necessary  to  arouse  the  passion  for  imparting  knowledge  in 
Porpora’s  mind,  for  it  is  always  the  case  that  something  of  resistance 
is  required  to  arouse  to  the  greatest  energy  any  very  powerful  faculty. 
It  often  happened  that  Joseph  was  forced  to  pretend  weariness  and 
inattention,  to  obtain  these  precious  lessons,  at  the  idea  even  of  neg 
lecting  which  he  trembled.  The  pleasure  of  contradiction  and  th* 
desire  of  success  contended  in  the  ill-tempered  and  quarrelsome- 
mind  of  the  old  professor.  Beppo  never  pofited  so  much  by  his  les 
sons  as  when  they  were  received  clearly,  eloquently,  and  ironically 
from  the  ill-temper  of  Porpora. 

While  the  house  of  Porpora  was  the  scene  of  these  seemingly  friv* 
clous  events,  the  consequences  of  which,  however,  have  so  much  to 
do  in  the  history  of  the  art,  since  the  genius  of  one  of  the  most 
voluminous  and  celebrated  composers  of  his  time  received  its  final 
expansion  and  completion,  things  exerting  a more  immediate  influ- 
ence on  the  romance  of  Consuelo’s  life  were  taking  place.  La  Corilla, 
who  had  better  capacity  for  attending  to  her  own  business,  gained 
ground  nvery  day,  and  perfectly  recovered  from  her  confinement,  was 
making  arrangements  for  a renewal  of  her  engagement  at  the  thea- 
tres of  the  court — a great  virtuoso  and  a mediocre  musician,  she 
pleased  the  director  and  his  wife  much  better  than  Consuelo.  All 
knew  the  learned  Porporina  would  bring  exalted  taste  with  her,  and 
that  in  her  mind  there  was  no  admiration  for  the  operas  of  Maestro 
Holzbaiier  and  his  wife’s  talent.  It  was  well  known  that  great  artists, 
when  badly  seconded,  and  forced  to  become  expressions  of  meagre 
thoughts,  do  not  always  preserve,  when  they  are  overpowered  by  vio- 
lence done  their  taste  and  conscience,  that  matter  of  routine,  that 
perfect  sang-froid  which  mediocre  persons  bear  so  cavalierly  in  the 
representation  of  the  worst  works  amid  the  cacophony  of  composi- 
tions badly  studied  and  badly  understood  by  their  companions. 

Even  when,  thanks  to  the  miracles  of  kindness  and  talents,  they 
triumph  over  those  arounci  them  and  their  parts,  the  envious  are  not 
satisfied,  the  composer  guesses  at  their  inward  suffering,  and  con- 
stantly dreads  to  see  their  factitious  inspiration  grow  cold  and  en- 
danger his  success.  The  public  itself,  amazed  and  troubled  it  knows 
not  why,  guesses  at  the  monstrous  anomaly  of  genius  subjected  to  a 
vulgar  idea,  struggling  in  the  narrow  chains  it  has  suffered  to  be  cast 
around  it,  and  almost  sighs  at  the  applause  it  receives.  M.  Holzbaiier, 
was  well  aware  of  the  small  estimate  Consuelo  placed  on  his  music. 
She  had  unfortunately  exhibited  her  opinion  on  an  excursion  she  had 
made  when,  being  disguised  as  a boy,  she  fancied  she  had  to  do  with 
one  of  those  personages  to  be  met  with  but  once  in  a life-time.  She 
spoke  frankly,  without  any  idea  that  some  day  or  other  her  fate  would 
be  at  the  mercy  of  the  artist  friend  of  the  canon.  Holzbaiier  had  not 
forgotten  the  circumstance,  and  piqued  to  the  very  quick,  thoagh  he 


488 


CONSUELO, 


retained  hto  calmness  discretion  and  courtesy,  lie  swore  to  preheat 
her  success.  As  though  he  was  unwilling  that  Porpora’s  pupil  should 
have  any  reason  to  find  fault  with  his  revenge  and  base  susceptibility 
he  had  told  Consuelo  of  the  affair  of  the  breakfast  at  the  presbytery. 
This  rencontre  did  not  seem  to  make  any  impression  on  the  director 
who  appeared  to  have  nearly  forgotten  the  features  of  the  little  Ber- 
toni,  and  who  had  not  the  least  idea  that  the  wandering  singer  and  la 
Porporina  were  one  and  the  same  person.  Consuelo  could  not  but 
enter  into  a labyrinth  of  e^rjectures  in  relation  to  the  conduct  of 
Holzbaiier  in  regard  to  her.  “ Dui  «ng  my  travels,”  said  she,  “ was  I 
so  perfectly  disguised,  and  did  the  arrangement  of  my  hair  so  com- 
pletely change  my  face,  that  a man  who  looked  at  me  with  clear  and 
penetrating  eyes  as  his,  could  not  recognise  me?  ” 

44  Count  Hoditz  did  not  know  you  when  he  saw  you  for  the  first 
time  at  the  ambassador’s,”  said  Joseph,  44  and  perhaps  had  he  not 
seen  your  note  he  never  would  have  done  so.” 

44  True,  but  the  Count  has  such  a haughty  and  contemptuous  way 
of  looking  at  people,  that  he  really  does  not  see  them.  I am  sure  he 
would  have  had  no  idea  of  my  sex,  but  for  the  information  he  receiv- 
ed from  Baron  Trenck.  On  the  other  hand,  Holzbaiier,  when  he  first 
saw  me  here,  and  whenever  he  sees  me,  fixes  on  me  those  attentive 
and  curious  eyes  which  I observed  at  the  Presbytery.  For  what 
reason  does  he  always  conceal  that  secret  of  a foolish  adventure 
which  might  seriously  injure  my  reputation,  if  he  pleased  to  place  a 
bad  interpretation  on  it,  and  might  perhaps  really  offend  the  maestro, 
who  thinks  I came  to  Vienna  without  difficulty,  hindrance,  or  any 
romantic  incidents,  at  the  very  time  that  Holzbaii  deprecates  my 
manner  and  method,  and  deserts  me  as  much  as  possible  to  avoid  the 
necessity  of  engaging  me  ? He  hates  and  repels  me,  yet  though  he 
has  the  most  powerful  arms  in  the  world  against  my  success,  does  not 
use  them ” 

The  explanation  of  this  mystery  Consuelo  soon  discovered.  Before, 
though,  we  tell  what  happened  to  her,  we  must  remind  all  that  a pow- 
erful coterie  was  at  work  to  supplant  her.  That  Corilla  was  beautiful 
and  coquettish;  that  the  Prime  Minister  Kaunitz  often  saw  her,  and 
loved  to  intermingle  in  green-room  cabals,  and  that  Maria  Theresa,  to 
repose  from  her  great  cares,  amused  herself  by  gossip  about  such  mat- 
ters with  her  Minister,  laughed  at  the  interest  lie  took  in  such  trifles, 
though  she  herself  had  sympathy  with  them,  inasmuch  as  they  ex- 
hibited to  her  in  miniature  a spectacle  somewhat  analogous  to  that 
witnessed  in  the  three  principal  courts  of  Europe,  each  of  which  was 
governed  by  female  intrigue — her  own,  that  of  the  Czarina,  and  that 
of  Madame  de  Pompadour. 


CHAPTER  LXXXIX 

It  is  well  known  that  Maria  Theresa  gave  an  audience  every  w*e& 
to  all  who  wished  to  speak  with  her  —a  paternally  hypocritical  cus- 
tom, which  her  son  Joseph  II.  religiously  observed,  and  which  is  yet 
observed  in  Austria.  Besides,  Maria  Theresa  willingly  gave  private 
audiences  to  all  who  wished  to  enter  her  service.  Never  was  any 
Jy  approached. 


CONSUELO 


439 


Porpora  obtained  an  audience,  in  order  that  the  empress,  being 
able  to  see  the  honest  face  of  Consuelo  distinctly,  might  perhaps  con- 
teive  some  decided  sympathy  for  her ; so  at  least  the  maestro  hoped. 
Aware  how  her  majesty  insisted  on  good  morals  and  discreet  deport- 
ment, he  said  she  would  be  struck  by  the  candor  and  modesty  which 
were  so  evident  in  every  lineament  of  his  pupil.  They  were  intro- 
duced into  one  of  the  small  rooms  of  the  palace,  into  which  an  instru- 
ment had  been  placed,  and  into  which,  after  about  a quarter  of  an 
hour,  the  empress  came.  She  had  just  received  some  distinguished 
persons  and  wore  her’ court  dress,  as  she  appears  on  the  coins  bearing 
her  effigy,  in  a brocade  robe,  with  a crown  on  her  head  and  a little 
Hungarian  sabre  by  her  side.  In  that  dress  she  was  truly  beautiful, 
not  with  the  impressive  and  ideal  nobility  which  her  courtiers  attrib- 
uted to  her,  but  fresh,  joyous,  and  with  an  open  and  happy  face,  a 
confiding  and  attractive  bearing.  This  was  indeed  the  queen,  Maria 
Theresa,  whom  the  magnates  proclaimed  with  their  drawn  swords  on 
a day  of  great  enthusiasm.  At  the  first  glance,  though,  she  seemed  a 
good  rather  than  a great  sovereign,  she  had  no  coquetry,  and  the  fa- 
miliarity of  her  manners  denoted  a calm  mind  without  any  feminine 
cunning.  When  one  regarded  her  fixedly,  and  when  she  spoke  ear- 
nestly, something  of  cold  cunning  was  visible  in  her  smiling  and  affable 
face.  This  cunning,  though,  was  masculine  and  imperial,  and  seemed 
to  partake  not  in  the  least  of  gallantry. 

“ You  will  let  me  hear  your  pupil  at  once,”  said  she  to  Porpora, 
“ I am  already  aware  of  her  great  knowledge,  and  I cannot  forget 
how  she  pleased  me  in  the  oratorio  of  Betulia  Liberata.  I wish, 
though,  first  to  converse  privately  with  her.  I have  many  questions 
to  put  to  her,  and  as  I rely  on  her  frankness,  I hope  to  be  able  to 
accord  to  her  the  protection  she  asks  of' me.” 

Porpora  left  at  once,  reading  in  her  Majesty’s  face  that  she  wished 
to  be  entirely  alone  with  Consuelo.  He  went  into  the  next  gallery, 
where  he  suffered  much  with  cold,  for  the  court,  ruined  by  the  ex- 
penses of  the  war,  was  governed  with  great  economy,  and  the  char- 
acter of  Maria  Theresa  was  not  at  all  in  opposition  to  the  exigencies 
of  her  position. 

When  she  was  thus  tete-k-tete  with  the  daughter  and  mother  of 
Caesars,  the  heroine  of  Germany,  and  the  greatest  woman  then  in 
Europe,  Consuelo  felt  neither  troubled  nor  intimidated.  Whether 
her  artistic  education  made  her  thus  indifferent  to  all  the  pomp 
which  glittered  around  Maria  Theresa,  or  because  her  noble  and  pure 
soul  felt  itself  equal  to  all  mortal  grandeur,  she  waited  with  calmness 
of  manner  and  serenity  of  mind  until  it  should  please  her  majesty  to 
question  her. 

The  empress  sat  on  a sofa,  and  pulled  a little  one  side  her  baldric 
of  gems,  which  pressed  a little  too  much  her  round  white  shoulder, 
and  spoke  thus : 

“ I repeat  to  you,  my  child,  that  I place  a high  estimate  on  talent, 
and  that  I have  no  doubt  of  your  knowledge  and  excellence  in  your 
art.  You  must,  though,  have  been  told  that  to  me  talent  is  nothing 
without  good  conduct;  and  that  I esteem  a pure  and  pious  heart 
more  highly  than  great  genius.” 

Consuelo  stood  erect,  and  heard  this  exordium  with  great  respect. 
It  did  not  though  seem  correct  to  her  to  speak  her  own  praises ; and 
as  she  also  had  the  greatest  repugnance  to  speak  of  virtues  she  pr* 
Used  In  such  simplicity,  she  waited  for  the  empress  to  question  W 


440 


©OKSTTKLO, 


more  directly  about  her  principles  and  her  resolutions.  It  was  then 
precisely  the  time  to  speak  to  her,  in  the  phrase  of  a well-turned 
madrigal,  about  her  angelic  piety,  her  sublime  virtues  and  the  impos- 
sibility of  error  with  such  an  example  before  her  eyes.  Delicate 
minds  are  always  afraid  to  insult  a great  character  by  proffering  to 
them  commonplace  praise.  Sovereigns,  though,  if  not  the  dupes  of 
this  vulgar  incense,  are  at  least  so  used  to  it  that  they  esteem  it  a 
mere  matter  of  etiquette.  Maria  Theresa  was  amazed  at  the  young 
girl’s  silence;  and  in  a manner  less  gentle  and  less  encouraging,  said: 
“ Now  I know,  my  dear  girl,  that  your  conduct  is  not  very  exact, 
and  that,  not  being  married,  you  live  on  terms  of  great  intimacy  with 
a young  man  of  your  profession,  the  name  of  whom  I do  not  recall 
just  now.” 

“ I can  make  but  one  reply  to  your  Imperial  Majesty,”  said  Consuelo, 
with  some  excitement  at  this  accusation : “ I have  never  committed 
one  fault  which  would  render  me  incompetent  to  bear  the  glance  of 
your  Majesty  without  modest  pride  and  gratified  joy.” 

Maria  Theresa  was  struck  with  the  proud  expression  which  the  face 
of  Consuelo  assumed.  Five  or  six  years  before  it  would  doubtless 
have  occasioned  pleasure  and  sympathy.  Maria  Theresa  was  royal  at 
heart,  and  the  exercise  of  her  power  had  given  a kind  of  intoxication 
to  her  mind  which  made  her  wish  to  see  all  bow  and  kneel  to  her. 
Maria  Theresa  wished  to  be  the  only  free  agent  in  her  dominions, 
either  as  a queen  or  a woman ; she  was  then  shocked  at  the  proud 
smile  and  frank  glance  of  the  young  girl,  who  was  to  her  but  as  a 
worm,  and  with  whom  she  wished  to  amuse  herself,  as  people  do  with 
a slave,  urged  on  from  curiosity  to  talk. 

“ I have  asked  you,  mademoiselle,  the  name  of  the  young  man  who 
lives  with  you  in  the  house  of  the  Maestro  Porpora,”  said  the  empress 
with  emotion. 

“ His  name  .s  Joseph  Haydn,”  said  Consuelo  with  calmness. 

“ Well,  on  account  of  his  devotion  to  you  he  entered  the  service  of 
Porpora  as  a valet  de  chambre.  The  maestro  is  ignorant  of  the  young 
man’s  motives,  while  you,  who  encourage  him,  are  not.” 

“ Some  one  has  slandered  me  to  your  Majesty.  This  young  man 
never  had  any  affection  for  me,  (Consuelo  thought  she  was  speaking 
the  truth.)  I know  that  he  loves  another.  If  any  deception  is  prac- 
tised towards  my  very  estimable  master,  the  motive  is  innocent  and 
perhaps  even  praiseworthy.  Love  of  art  alone  decided  Joseph  Haydn 
to  enter  the  service  of  Porpora.  Since  your  Majesty  deigns  to  exam- 
ine the  character  of  your  humblest  servants,  and  as  it  is  evident  that 
nothing  escapes  the  clearness^  your  perception,  I am  sure  you  will 
do  justice  to  my  sincerity  if  you  wish  to  examine  my  cause.” 

Maria  Theresa  had  too  much  penetration  not  to  distinguish  the 
accents  of  truth.  She  had  not  yet  forgotten  the  heroism  of  her  by- 
gone days,  though  she  was  on  that  declivity  of  absolute  power  which 
gradually  extinguishes  even  the  nor  est  souls. 

“ Young  girl,  I think  you  true,  and  your  words  chaste;  but  I dis- 
cover in  you  too  much  pride,  and  a distrust  of  my  maternal  kindness, 
which  makes  me  fear  that  I can  do  nothing  for  you.” 

“ If  I have  to  do  with  the  maternal  kindness  of  Maria  Theresa,” 
said  Consuelo,  touched  by  mat  phrase,  the  commonplace  nature  of 
which  she  was  unfortunately  ignorant  of,  “ I am  ready  to  kneel  to 
Implore  it,  but — ” 

“ Of  on  my  child,”  said  Maria  Theresa,  who,  for  some  rwknewm 


441 


COHBUILO. 

Mason.  was  anxious  to  bend  her  strange  visiter.  44  Say  what  yon 
think? 

44  If  though  I have  to  do  with  imperial  justice,  I have  nothing  to 
eonfess ; for  a purer  breath  does  not  sully  the  atmosphere  which  even 
the  gods  breathe.  I feel  myself  fully  worthy  of  your  protection.” 

44  Porporina,”  said  the  empress,  44  you  are  a woman  of  talent,  and 
your  originality,  which  would  offend  another,  does  you  no  injury  in 
my  mind.  I have  told  you  that  I believe  you  frank,  yet  I know  that 
you  have  something  to  confess.  Why  do  you  hesitate  to  do  so  ? You 
love  Joseph  Haydn,  and  I do  not  doubt  but  that  your  liaison  is  pure. 
You  love  him  for  the  very  pleasure  of  seeing  him  frequently.  Let 
me  suppose  your  anxiety  originates  in  the  wish  to  witness  his  progress 
in  music, — it  makes  you  venture  to  expose  your  reputation,  the  most 
precious  treasure  with  which  a woman  is  endowed.  You  perhaps  are 
afraid  that  your  master  and  your  adopted  father,  will  not  consent  to 
your  marriage  with  a poor  and  powerless  artist.  Perhaps  also,  for  I 
will  believe  all  you  say,  the  young  man  loves  another,  and  proud,  as  I 
see  you  are,  you  conceal  your  love,  and  sacrifice  your  good  name, 
without  any  personal  satisfaction  from  this  devotion.  Well,  my  dear 
child,  while  you  have  the  opportunity  which  now  presents  itself,  but 
which  perhaps  will  do  so  no  more,  I would  open  my  heart  to  my  sov- 
ereign, and  would  say — 4 To  you,  who  can  do  anything,  and  wish  to 
do  good,  I confide  my  fate.  Remove  all  obstacles  in  the  way  of  my 
prosperity.  By  one  word  you  can  change  the  wishes  of  my  tutor  and 
of  him  I love; — you  can  make  me  happy,  restore  to  me  the  respect  of 
the  public,  and  place  me  in  so  honorable  a position  that  I will  be  able 
to  enter  the  service  of  the  court.’  This  is  the  confidence  you  should 
have  in  the  maternal  interest  of  Maria  Theresa,  and  I regret  that  you 
have  not.” 

44  I understand  very  well,”  said  Consuelo  to  herself, 44  that  from  some 
caprice,  from  childish  despotism,  you  wish  the  Zingarella  to  clasp  your 
knees,  because  you  see  hers*  do  not  tremble  before  you,  and  that  this 
is  a rare  phenomenon.  Well,  you  will  not  have  that  gratification,  at 
least  until  I see  you  deserve  this  honor.” 

These  and  other  reflections  passed  rapidly  through  her  mind,  while 
Maria  Theresa  was  preaching  to  her.  She  said  the  fortune  of  Por- 
pora  now  depended  on  the  hazard  of  the  die,  on  a mere  imperial 
whim,  and  that  she  might,  to  secure  her  master’s  prosperity,  slightly 
humiliate  herself.  She  expected  that  Maria  Theresa  would  immedi- 
ately appear  great  to  her,  so  as  to  justify  her  adoration. 

When  the  empress  had  finished  her  homily,  Consuelo  replied — 44 1 
will  reply  to  all  your  Majesty  wishes,  if  you  deign  to  command  me.” 

44  Yes — speak  1 speak  1”  said  the  empress,  piqued  at  her  impassive 
countenance. 

44 1 will  then  tell  your  Majesty  that  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  have 
I learned  that  my  reputation  has  been  compromised  by  the  presence 
of  Joseph  Haydn  in  the  maestro’s  house.  I thought  myself  too  in- 
significant to  attract  public  attention,  and  had  I been  told,  when  com- 
ing to  the  imperial  palace,  that  the  empress  herself  thought  of  and 
censured  me,  I would  have  fancied  that  I dreamed.” 

Maria  Theresa  interrupted  her,  and  fancied  that  she  saw  some- 
thing of  irony  in  this  reflection  of  Consuelo.  44  You  must  not  be 
astonished,”  said  she  in  a rathfr  emphatic  tone,  44  that  I interest  my- 
self in  the  minutest  ieUils  of  the  lives  of  those  for  whom  I am  re* 
feasible  to  Go4” 


442 


CONSUELO, 


“We  may  be  astonished,”  said  Consuelo  adroitly,  “at  what  w% 
admire.  If  great  things  are  the  most  simple,  they  are,  at  least,  rare 
enough  to  surprise  us  at  first.” 

“You  shDuld  also,”  added  the  empress,  “comprehend  the  part&Q- 
lar  interest  I feel  for  you  and  all  the  artists  whtfm  I love  to  make  &e 
ornaments  of  my  court.  In  every  part  of  the  world,  the  thesurs  Is  a 
school  for  scandal  and  an  abyss  of  turpitude.  I have  a disposition 
praiseworthy  at  least,  even  though  it  be  impracticable,  to  reinstate 
and  to  purify  in  the  mind  of  God  and  man,  the  profession  which  has 
been  subjected  to  blind  contempt,  and  even  to  religious  persecution 
in  other  nations.  While  in  France,  the  church  shut  its  doors  in  their 
faces,  I wish  in  my  States  to  remove  all  obstacles.  I have  never  ad* 
mitted,  either  into  my  Italian  opera  troupe,  my  company  of  French 
comedians,  or  the  national  theatre,  any  but  persons  of  well-known 
morality,  or  who  bona  fide,  have  resolved  to  reform  their  conduct. 
You  know  my  actors  are  married,  that  I even  become  sponsor  for 
their  children  at  the  baptismal  font,  and  resolve,  by  every  possible 
favor,  to  encourage  the  legitimacy  of  births  and  the  observance  of  the 
marriage  tie.” 

“ Had  we  known  that,”  said  Consuelo,  “ we  would  have  besought 
your  majesty  to  be  the  god-mother  of  Angela,  in  my  place.  Your 
majesty  sows  to  gather  a good  harvest,  and  had  I a fault  on  my  con- 
science, I would  be  glad  to  find  in  her  a confessor,  charitable  as  God’a 
own  self.  But ” 

“ Continue  the  subject  of  which  you  were  speaking  just  now.” 

“ I was  saying,”  said  Consuelo,  “ that  being  ignorant  of  the  blame 
attached  to  the  residence  of  Joseph  Hadyn,  in  our  house,  I was  not  so 
very  devoted  in  exposing  myself  to  it.” 

“ I understand,”  said  the  empress ; “ you  deny  all?  ” 

“ How  can  I confess  an  untruth ! ” said  Consuelo ; “ I have  neither 
any  love  for  my  master's  pupil,  nor  have  I any  wish  to  marry  him. 
Even  if  the  case  were  otherwise,  I would  not  accept  a hand  offered 
me  by  imperial  decree.” 

“ Then  you  wish  to  remain  unmarried  ? ” said  the  empress,  rising. 
“ Then  I must  tell  you,  it  is  a condition  of  life  which,  in  the  point  of 
view  of  respectability,  does  not  offer  all  the  securities  I require.  It  is 
also  inconvenient  for  a young  person  to  appear  in  certain  roles , and 
represent  certain  passions,  unless  sanctioned  and  protected  by  a hus- 
band. You  might  have  triumphed  over  your  opponent,  Madame  Cor- 
ilia,  of  whom  I have  heard  much  good,  but  who,  by  no  means,  pro- 
nounces Italian  as  well  as  you  do.  She,  though,  is  a married  woman 
and  the  mother  of  a family — a circumstance  which  gives  her  great  ad- 
vantages, in  case  you  persist  in  remaining  in  your  present  condition.” 
Consuelo  could  not  refrain  from  muttering  between  her  teeth, 
“ Married  1 ” She  was  completely  overpowered  at  the  idea  of  that 
virtuous — remarkably  virtuous — person  being  preferred  to  her. 

“Yes,  married!  ” said  the  empress  positively,  and  angry  at  the 
suspicion  expressed  in  relation  to  her  \ rotegee.  “ She  gave  birth  to  a 
child  recently,  which  she  has  confided  to  a laborious  ecclesiastic — the 
Canon  * * * * — to  receive  a religious  education.  Certainly,  that 
worthy  person  wou.d  not  have  taken  charge  of  it,  unless  he  knew  the 
mother  had  a right  to  his  esteem.” 

“ I am  sure  of  it,”  said  Consuelo,  a little  consoled  at  the  idea  that 
the  canon  was  approved  of  and  not  censured  for  his  adoption ; »h« 
was,  though,  most  indignan  * 


C O N S tJ  E L ©« 


441 

“Th*s  history  is  written,  and  thus  monarcbs  are  Instructed,"  said 
she  when  the  empress,  with  a stern  air,  had  left  the  room,  making  as 
she  passed  but  a slight  inclination  of  the  head.  “ Well,  something  of 
rood  can  always  be  extracted  from  misfortune,  and  the  human  errors 
have  often  a good  result.  The  canon  will  not  lose  his  priory — Gorilla 
wil,  if  the  empress  interferes,  become  a virtuous  woman,  and  I have 
not  knelt  to  one  who  is  no  better  than  I am.” 

“ Well ! ” said  Porpora,  with  an  anxious  voice  from  the  gallery  in 
which  he  had  been  impatiently  walking  and  twisting  his  hands ; “ I 
hope  we  have  succeeded.” 

“ No,  my  kind  maestro,  we  have  failed.” 

“ How  calmly  you  say  this ! What  the  devil  is  the  matter?  " 

“ You  must  not  mention  the  devil ; he  has  no  chance  to  show  him* 
self  at  court.  When  we  are  out  of  the  palace  I will  tell  you  an.” 
“Well,  what  is  the  matter?”  said  Porpora  impatiently,  as  soon 
as  they  had  passed  the  ramparts. 

“ Do  you  remember,  maestro,  what  we  said  of  the  Prime  Minister, 
Kaunitz,  when  we  left  the  Margrave’s  ? ” 

“We  said  he  was  an  old  gossip.  Has  he  foiled  us?  ” 

“ Certainly.  Well,  now  I tell  you  her  Majesty,  the  empress,  Queen 
of  Hungary,  is  also  a gossip.” 


CHAPTER  XC. 

Consuelo  told  Porpora  all  she  thought  he  should  know  of  the 
motives  of  Maria  Theresa  for  the  kind  of  disgrace  to  which  she  had 
been  subjected.  The  rest  would,  perhaps,  have  irritated,  disturbed, 
and  offended  the  maestro  with  Joseph  Haydn,  without  any  benefit  at 
all.  She  also  decided  not  to  tell  her  young  friend  what  she  concealed 
from  Porpora.  Rightly  enough  she  contemned  the  vague  accusations 
which  she  knew  had  been  made  by  two  or  three  enemies,  to  the  em- 
press, and  which  had  no  public  circulation.  The  ambassador  Korner, 
to  wiiom  she  confided  every  thing,  approved  of  her  following  this 
course;  and  to  prevent  malice  from  obtaining  possession  of  these 
seeds  of  slander,  acted  prudently  and  wisely.  He  persuaded  Porpora 
to  remain  at  his  hotel  with  Consuelo,  and  Haydn  entered  the  service 
of  the  ambassador,  being  admitted  to  the  table  of  the  private  secreta^ 
ries.  Thus  the  old  maestro  was  freed  from  want,  and  Joseph  contin- 
ued to  render  him  some  personal  services,  which  enabled  him  to  see 
him  often  and  to  take  his  lessons.  Consuelo  was  protected  from  all 
malicious  insinuations. 

In  spite  of  this,  Corilla  was  engaged  instead  of  Consuelo  for  the 
Imperial  Theatre.  The  latter  had  not  been  able  to  please  Maria 
Theresa.  This  great  queen,  though  laughing  at  the  green-room  in- 
trigues which  Kaunitz  and  Metastasio  half  displayed  to  her  in  the 
most  charming  manner,  wished  to  assume  the  role  ©f  an  incarnate 
and  crowned  providence  amid  a troupe  of  strolling  actors,  who  pro- 
fessed to  hei  to  be  repen  .ant  sinners  and  converted  demons.  It  may 
be  imagined  that  among  these  hypocrites,  who  received  little  pensions 
and  presents  for  their  so-called  piety,  were  found  neither  Caffariello, 
Farihelli,  la  Tesi,  nor  Madame  Hasse ; none,  in  fine,  of  those  great 


444 


CONSUELO. 


virtuosi  Vienna  sometimes  heaid,  and  who,  from  their  high  talent* 
were  leniently  treated.  The  lower  parts,  though,  were  always  occu- 
pied by  people  who  deigned  to  flatter  the  devout  and  moralizing 
humor  of  her  majesty;  who  exhibited  her  intriguing  disposition  in 
every  thing,  and  used  all  her  art  to  bring  about  the  marriage  or  con>- 
version  of  an  actor.  We  may  read  in  the  Memoirs  of  Favart,  (that 
interesting  romance  of  real  life  in  the- green-room,)  the  difficulty  he 
had  to  find  actresses  and  singers  willing  to  go  to  Vienna.  The  court 
insisted  on  having  them  cheap,  and  besides,  chaste  as  vestals.  I think 
this  furnisher  of  musical  chastity  — specially  appointed  by  Maria 
Theresa — succeeded  in  finding  one.  This  speaks  volumes  in  favor  of 
our  operatic  artists ! as  was  then  said. 

Thus  Maria  Theresa  wished  to  make  even  her  amusement  an  edify- 
ing pretext  for  the  display  of  the  beneficent  majesty  of  her  character. 
Monarchs  always  place  themselves  in  postures,  and  great  monarchs, 
perhaps,  more  frequently  than  others.  This  Porpora  frequently  said, 
and  he  was  not  mistaken.  The  great  empress  was  a zealous  Catholic, 
an  exemplary  mother,  and  yet  had  no  objections  to  talk  to  a prosti- 
tute, to  catechise  and  call  forth  the  strongest  confessions,' merely  to 
have  the  glory  of  bringing  a repentant  Magdalen  to  the  foot  of  the 
altar.  The  privy  purse  of  her  majesty,  thus  standing  between  vice 
and  contrition,  worked  numerous  and  infallible  miracles  of  grace. 
Thus  Gorilla,  weeping  and  crushed,  if  not  in  person,  for  I doubt  if 
she  could  bend  her  stern  character  to  such  a comedy— hut  in  the  per- 
son of  Kaunitz,  who  watched  over  her  new-born  virtue — was  certain 
to  triumph  over  a decided  young  girl,  who  was  bold  and  resolute  as 
the  immaculate  Consuelo.  Maria  Theresa  loved  no  dramatic  proteges 
that  she  could  not  say  she  had  herself  been  the  creator.  Self-made 
and  self-guarded  virtues  did  not  greatly  interest  her.  She  did  not 
have  that  confidence  her  own  virtue  should  have  inspired  her  to  be- 
lieve. The  bearing  of  Consuelo  also  had  piqued  her,  and  she  had 
found  her  calm  and  reflective.  It  was  too  arrogant  and  presumptuous 
conduct  for  a little  gipsy  to  presume  to  be  honest  and  virtuous  with- 
out the  empress ; and  when  Kaunitz,  therefore,  who  feigned  to  be  very 
impartial  towards  each  of  the  singers,  asked  if  she  had  granted  the 
prayer  of  “ the  young  girl,”  the  empress  answered,  “ I was  not  satis- 
fied with  her  principles;  do  not  mention  her  again  to  me.”  The 
voice,  face,  and  even  the  name  of  la  Porporina  were  completely  for- 
gotten. 

One  single  word  alone  was  necessary  and  sufficient  to  explain  to 
Porpora  the  reason  of  his  being  out  of  favor.  Consuelo  told  him 
that  her  position  as  an  unmarried  woman  seemed  inadmissible  to  the 
empress.  “But  la  Corilla?  ” said  Porpora,  who  had  known  that  the 
latter  had  been  engaged.  “ Has  her  majesty  found  la  Corilla  a hus- 
band ? ” 

“ As  well  as  I could  understand  or  devise  the  meaning  of  her  ma- 
jesty’s words,  la  Corilla  here  passes  for  a widow.” 

“ Ah,  thrice  ten,  a hundred  times  a widow,  in  fact,”  said  Porpora. 
with  a bitter  smile.  “ What  will  people  say,  though,  when  it  is  known 
what  she  is,  and  when  begins  another  series  of  her  numberless 
widowhoods?  And  the  child  they  tcld  me  of,  whom  she  left  with  ait 
old  canon  near  Vienna?  That  child  she  wished  to  present  to  Count 
Zustiniani,  and  whom  7 isti  liani  advised  her  to  confide  to  the  pater 
nal  tenderness  of  Anzoleto.  She  will  laugh  at  all  this  with  her  com- 
panions; she  will  tell  of  it,  as  she  is  wont,  in  cynical  terms,  and  will 


eoxausLo.  44 

laugh  in  the  privacy  of  her  dressing-room  at  the  trick  the  has  played 
the  empress.” 

* But  if  the  empress  learns  the  truth  ? 99 

u She  will  not ; sovereigns  are  surrounded,  I imagine,  by  ears,  which 
are  mere  portals  to  their  own.  Much  remains  outside,  and  nothing 
enters  the  sanctuary  of  the  imperial  ear  but  what  the  guardians 
suffer  to  pass.  Besides,”  said  Porpora  “ Corilla  will  always  have 
the  resource  of  being  able  to  confess.  M.  Kaunitz  will  always  point 
out  her  penitence.” 

The  poor  maestro  exhaled  his  bile  in  such  bitter  jests  as  the  above. 
He  became  hopeless  of  being  abk  to  produce  the  opera  lying  in  his 
desk — now  completed — especially  as  it  was  for  a libretto  not  by  Metas* 
tasio,  who  had  a monopoly  of  the  poetry  of  the  court.  He  was  not 
without  a presentiment  of  the  little  tact  Consuelo  had  displayed  in 
captivating  the  good  graces  of  the  empress.  He  could  not,  therefore, 
repress  his  ill  humor.  As  an  additional  misfortune,  the  Venetian 
ambassador,  in  an  enthusiasm  of  pride  and  pleasure  at  the  develop- 
ment of  the  musical  intelligence  of  Haydn,  one  day  told  him  all  the 
truth  about  the  young  man,  and  showed  him  his  beautiful  attempts 
in  musical  composition,  which  began  to  be  circulated  and  to  be  talked 
of  by  amateurs.  The  maestro  had  been  deceived,  and  became  much 
enraged.  Luckily,  though,  he  did  not  suspect  Consuelo  of  being  the 
accomplice  of  the  ruse.  Korner,  seeing  the  storm  he  had  created, 
hastened  to  prevent  his  suspicions  by  a good  lie.  He  could  not, 
though,  prevent  Haydn  from  being  banished  for  some  days  from  the 
maestro’s  room.  All  the  ascendancy  wjiich  his  protection  and  his  ser- 
vices gave  him  over  the  latter  were  required  to  restore  him  to  fa 
Porpora,  though,  for  a long  time  was  offended  with  him,  and  made 
him  do  penance  for  his  offence  by  a more  minute  discharge  of  his  u- 
ties  as  a valet  than  was  necessary,  since  the  valets  of  the  embassy 
were  at  his  orders.  Haydn  did  not  refuse,  and  by  means  of  gentle- 
ness, patience,  and  devotion,  being  constantly  exhorted  and  encour- 
aged by  Consuelo,  was  always  faithful  and  attentive  to  his  lessons, 
finally  disarming  the  rude  professor,  whom  he  induced  to  impart  to 
him  all  he  had  the  wish  or  capacity  to  learn. 

The  genius  of  Haydn  dreamed  of  a different  route  from  any  yet 
attempted,  and  the  future  author  of  the  symphony  confided  to  Con- 
suelo  his  ideas  in  relation  to  the  development  of  its  instrumental 
arrangement  in  the  most  gigantic  proportions.  These  gigantic  pro- 
portions, which  seem  to  us  now  so  simple  and  natural,  must  have 
seemed  as  much  the  utopia  of  a fool,  as  the  revelation  of  a new  era 
of  genius.  Joseph  yet  mistrusted  himself,  and  not  without  trepida- 
tion confessed  to  Consuelo  the  terror  which  tormented  him.  ~Consu- 
elo,  too,  was  at  first  much  afra.d.  Until  that  time  the  instrumenta- 
tion played  but  a secondary  part,  and  when  isolated  from  the  human 
voice,  had  no  complication.  There  was,  though,  so  much  calmness  y 
and  perseverance  in  her  young  associate — he  exhibited  in  his  whole  N 
conduct  so  much  real  modesty,  and  so  calm  a research  after  the  truth 
— that  Consuelo,  unable  to  think  him  presumptuous,  considered  him 
prudent,  and  encouraged  him  in  his  plans.  Just  then  Haydn  com- 
posed a serenade  for  three  instrum  3nts,  which,  with  his  friends,  h# 
performed  beneath  the  windows  of  the  dilettanti , the  attention  of 
whom  he  was  anxious  to  attract  to  his  works.  He  began  with  Por 
pora,  who,  not  knowing  the  name  of  the  composer,  heard  with  pkm* 
mi*,  and  clapped  his  hands  without  reserve.  On  this  occasion,  the 


446 


CONST!  EL  O, 


Embassador,  who  was  in  the  secret,  said  nothing,  and  did  not  betray 
the  young  composer.  Porpora  was  unwilling  that  one  taking  lessons 
In  plain  song  should  be  distracted  by  other  words. 

At  this  time  Porpora  received  a letter  from  the  admirable  contraltes 
Hubert,  whom  he  had  taught,  and  who  bore  the  name  of  Porporino. 
That  artist  was  in  the  service  of  Frederick  the  Great.  He  was  not, 
Jke  the  professor’s  other  pupils,  infatuated  with  his  own  merit,  so  as 
io  forget  his  obligations  to  Porpora.  From  him  the  Porporino  had 
imbibed  a kind  of  talent  he  had  never  attempted  to  modify,  and  which 
had  always  succeeded.  He  used  to  sing  in  ail  ample,  pure  style,  with- 
out ornament,  and  without  deserting  the  correct  method  of  his  mas- 
ter. He  was  particularly  admirable  in  the  adagio . Porpora,  there* 
fore,  had  a liking  for  him  very  difficult  to  be  concealed  in  the  presence 
of  the  fanatical  admirers  of  Farmed’  and  Caffariello.  He  did  not 
deny  the  skill,  the  brilliancy,  and  the  suppleness  of  those  great  virtu- 
osi, as  being  able  to  give  more  eclat  and  to  delight  more  suddenly  an 
audience  greedy  of  difficulties.  He  said,  though,  to  himself,  that  Por- 
porino made  no  sacrifices  to  bad  taste,  and  that  people  were  never 
weary  of  hearing  him.  It  really  appears  the  Prussians  never  did,  for 
he  shone  there  during  the  whole  of  his  musical  existence,  more  than 
forty  years,  dying  at  a very  advanced  age. 

This  letter  of  Hubert  told  Porpora  that  his  music  was  highly  appre- 
ciated at  Berlin,  and  that  if  he  would  join  him,  he  would  use  every 
effort  to  have  his  new  compositions  received  and  admitted.  He  ad- 
vised him  to  leave  Vienna,  a city  in  which  the  artists  were  constantly 
involved  in  the  cabals  of  cliques,  and  to  obtain  a distinguished  female 
singer  who  would  appear  with  himself  in  some  of  Porpora’s  own 
works.  He  spoke  highly  of  the  king’s  enlightened  taste,  and  of  the 
honorable  protection  he  gave  musicians.  “ If  this  plan  ^uit  your 
views,  reply  at  once  what  are  your  pretensions,  and  three  months 
hence  I will  promise  you  an  engagement,  at  least  sufficient  to  procure 
you  a peaceable  life.  As  for  glory,  my  dear  instructor,  do  you  but 
write,  and  we  will  sing  so  as  to  cause  you  to  be  appreciated  even  as 
far  as  Dresden. 

At  this  last  phrase  Porpora  erected  his  ears  like  an  old  war-horse. 
It  was  an  allusion  to  the  triumphs  of  Hasse  and  his  singers  at  Dres- 
den. The  idea  of  equalling  his  rival  in  the  north  of  Germany  was 
grateful  to  the  maestro,  and  he  at  once  conceived  an  aversion  to  Vi- 
enna, the  Viennese,  and  the  court.  He  at  once  replied  to  the  Por- 
porino, authorising  him  to  make  arrangements  for  him  at  Berlin.  He 
made  his  ultimatum  small  as  possible  in  order  to  prevent  disappoint- 
ment. He  spoke  in  the  highest  terms  of  la  Porporina,  saying  she  was 
his  sister,  both  in  education  and  in  genius,  as  well  as  by  name.  He 
urged  him  to  make  the  best  possible  terms  for  her.  All  this  he  did 
without  consulting  Consuelo  until  after  the  letter  was  gone. 

The  poor  girl  was  terrified  at  the  very  mention  of  Prussia,  and  the 
name  of  Frederick  the  Great  made  her  shudder.  Since  the  affair  of 
the  deserter  she  had  always  looked  on  the  celebrated  monarch  as  an  » 
ogre  and  vampire.  Porpora  complained  not  a little  at  the  disregard 
she  showed  at  the  idea  of  a new  engagement,  and  as  she  could  not 
tell  him  the  story  of  Carl  and  the  promises  of  Mayer,  she  looked  down, 
and  suffered  him  to  scold  away. 

When  she  found  time  to  think,  though,  she  found  some  consolation 
fei  the  idea.  It  postponed  her  return  to  the  stage,  for  the  Porporino 
Bright  fail  and  at  all  events  asked  three  months  to  conclude  the  ar* 


CON8UE1  o, 


447 


rangeinent.  Till  then  she  might  dream  ef  the  love  of  Count  Albert, 
•nd  resolve  herself  to  return  it  If  she  saw  a probability  of  uniting 
herself  to  h.m,  or  if  she  did  not,  she  might  with  honor  and  frankness 
keep  the  resolution  she  had  formed,  to  think  of  him  with  distraction 
and  without  constraint. 

Before  she  announced  the  news  to  her  hosts  at  Riesenberg,  she  re- 
solved to  wait  until  Count  Christian  had  replied  to  her  letter.  The 
expected  reply  did  not  come,  and  Consuelo  began  to  be  afraid  that  old 
Rudolstadt  was  become  dissatisfied  with  the  contemplated  marriage 
and  was  trying  to  induce  Albert  to  renounce  it.  One  day,  however, 
she  received  a letter  by  the  hands  of  Keller,  which  ran  as  follows : 

“You  promised  to  write  to  me.  You  did  so,  when  you  indirectly 
advised  my  father  of  the  difficulties  of  our  present  situation.  I see 
you  wear  a burden,  to  relieve  you  of  which  would  be  a crime  in  me. 
I see  that  my  good  father  is  terrified  at  the  consequences  of  your  sub- 
mission to  Porpora — though  I am  not  now  afraid  of  anything — be- 
cause you  exhibit  to  my  father  terror  and  regret  for  the  course  you 
have  been  led  to  take.  This  satisfies  me  that  you  will  not  with  incon- 
sideration condemn  me  to  eternal  despair.  No,  you  will  not  break 
your  word ; you  will  try  to  love  me.  What  matters  it  to  me  where 
you  are,  or  how  you  are  engaged,  or  in  what  rank  the  respect  or  prej- 
udice of  men  may  hold  you,  or  even  the  obstacles  which  keep  you  from 
me,  if  you  bid  me  hope  or  despair?  I suffer  much,  certainly,  but  can 
bear  more  without  failing,  until  you  shall  have  extinguished  all  hope. 

“ I will  wait,  for  I have  learned  to  do  so.  Do  not  be  afraid  to  pain 
me,  by  taking  time  to  reply  to  me.  Do  not  write  to  me  under  the  im- 
pression of  fear  or  pity,  with  which  I will  have  nothing  to  do.  Taka 
my  fate  into  your  heart,  my  soul  into  yours;  and  when  the  time  is 
come,  whether  in  a convent  cell,  or  on  the  stage  of  a theatre,  tell 
me  never  to  annoy  you  again,  or,  to  come  to  join  you.  I shall 
either  lie  at  your  feet,  or  be  mute  for  ever.  Albert.” 

“Noble  Albert,”  said  Consuelo,  as  she  placed  the  paper  to  her  lips, 
“ I feel  that  I love  you.  It  would  be  impossible  not  to  do  so,  and  I will 
not  hesitate  to  say  so.  I wish  to  reward  you  by  a promise  of  con- 
stancy and  devotion.” 

At  once  she  sat  down  to  write.  The  sound  of  Porpora’s  voice  made 
her  at  once  hide  the  letter  in  her  bosom,  as  well  as  the  answer  she  was 
about  to  write  to  Albert.  During  the  whole  day  she  could  not  be 
alone  for  one  moment.  It  seemed  that  the  old  growler  guessed  at  her 
wish  to  be  alone,  and  took  care  that  she  should  not.  Night  came, 
Consuelo  became  calm,  and  understood  that  so  grave  a determination 
demanded  a longer  test  of  her  own  feelings.  It  was  necessary  that 
Albert  should. not  be  exposed  to  the  disastrous  consequences  of  a re- 
action on  her  own  emotions.  She  re-read  his  letter  a hundred  times, 
and  saw  that  he  apprehended  both  the  pain  of  a refusal  and  a pre- 
cipitate promise.  She  resolved  to  think  for  some  days : Albert  him- 
self seemed  to  insist  on  it. 

The  life  Consuelo  led  at  tne  embassy  was  calm  and  regular.  To 
avoid  all  misinterpretations,  Korner  never  visited  her  in  her  room, 
and  never,  in  even  Porpora’s  company,  invited  her  to  hie.  He  only 
met  her  in  the  apartments  of  Madame  Wilhelmina,  where  he  could 
speak  to  her  witlio' t compromising  her,  and  where,  to  oblige  the  com- 
pany, sh-s  often  sang.  Joseph  was  often  sent  for  to  accompany  her. 


Caftoriello  came  thither  frequently,  and  Count  Hodvtz  sometime* 
Metastasio  came  rarely.  All  regretted  that  Consuelo  had  failed ; bat 
neither  of  the  three  dared  to  strive  for  her.  Porpora  was  indignant, 
and  found  it  very  difficult  to  conceal  it.  Consuelo  made  every  effort 
to  soothe  him,  and  make  him  associate  with  men,  in  spite  of  their 
weakness.  She  excited  him  to  work,  and  thanks  to  her,  from  time  to 
time,  regained  his  hope  and  enthusiasm.  She  encouraged  him  only 
in  the  pique  which  induced  him  not  to  take  her  into  society,  and  not 
to  make  her  sing.  Happy  at  the  idea  of  being  forgotten  by  the  great, 
whom  she  had  received  with  terror  and  repugnance,  she  gave  herself 
up  to  serious  study  and  deep  reverie,  cultivated  the  friendship  (now 
become  calm  and  holy)  of  Haydn,  saying  every  day,  as  she  attended 
to  the  wants  of  the  good  maestro,  that,  if  nature  had  not  provided 
for  her  a life  without  emotion  and  movement,  it  had  least  of  all  made 
her  ambitious  and  fond  of  change.  She  had,  indeed,  not  yet  dreamed 
of  a more  animated  existence,  of  more  lively  joy,  and  of  more  expan- 
five  and  vast  intellectual  pleasures.  The  pure  world  of  art,  though, 
which  she  had  created  for  herself,  was  so  noble  and  sympathetic, 
never  manifesting  itself  except  under  unpleasant  circumstances,  that 
she  preferred  an  obscure  and  retired  life,  gentle  affections,  and  a labo- 
rious solitude. 

Consuelo  had  no  new  reflections  to  make, in  relation  to  Rudolstadt’s 
offer.  She  could  entertain  no  doubt  in  relation  to  his  generosity,  and 
the  unalterable  holiness  of  the  love  of  the  son,  and  the  kind  indul- 
gence of  the  father.  She  had  not  to  inquire  into  her  reason  or  her 
conscience.  Both  spoke  in  favor  of  Albert.  On  this  occasion  she 
had,  without  any  difficulty,  triumphed  over  her  memory  of  Anzoleto. 
Victory  over  one  passion  enables  us  to  subdue  others.  She,  there- 
fore, feared  no  influence,  and  henceforth  would  triumph  over  all 
ether  temptations. 

Passion,  however,  did  not  speak  in  her  heart  in  favor  of  Albert 
with  any  power.  It  was,  therefore,  still  her  duty  to  question  that 
heart,  in  the  depth  of  which  a mysterious  calm  reflected  the  idea  of  a 
perfect  love.  Sitting  at  her  window,  the  naive  girl  often  saw  the 
young  people  of  the  city  passing  down  the  street.  Bold  students,  no- 
ble lords,  melancholy  artists,  proud  cavaliers,  were  often  the  objects 
of  a serious  and  chaste  examination,  which  in  its  character  was 
almost  infantine. 

“ How,”  said  she,  “ is  my  heart — frivolous  or  chaste  ? Am  I capa- 
ble of  loving  madly  and  irresistibly  at  first  sight,  as  many  of  my 
country-women  of  la  Scuola  confessed  or  boasted  before  me  to  each 
other?  Is  love  a magic  flash,  which  overpowers  our  nature,  and 
turns  us  violently  from  the  affection^  we  protested  to  keep,  in  the 
days  of  our  innocence?  Is  there  among  those  men  who  look  up  to 
my  window  one  face  which  troubles  or  fascinates  me?  That  one 
with  his  tall  form  and  lofty  step  seems  to  me  more  noble  and  hand- 
some than  Albert.  The  other,  with  his  fine  hair  and  handsome 
dress,  effaces  the  image  of  my  betrothed?  Would  I be  the  gaily 
decked  lady  I see  in  yonder  coach,  which  the  noble-looking  gentleman 
now  hands  her  fan  and  gloves  ? Which  of  all  these  things  troubles 
or  annoys  me,  or  makes  me  blush?  No — no,  indeed!  Speak,  my 
heart — speak !— I appeal  to  you.  I let  you  go  at  liberty.  I scarcely 
know  you,  I have  had  so  little  time  to  consult  you  since  my  birth.  I 
have  not  been  used  to  contradiction.  I abandoned  to  you  the  em- 
pire of  my  life,  without  examining  the  propriety  of  your  impxnsdfe, 


CONSUELO. 


Yon  hare  been  crushed,  poor  heart ; and  row  that  conscience  ha® 
subdued  you,  you  dare  live  no  longer ; you  know  not  what  to  say. 
Reply!  arouse  yourself,  and  make  your  choice!  Well,  you  are  silent. 
You  will  net  choose  amid  what  is  open  to  you.  No;  you  love  Anao- 
leto  no  more?  No,  no; — then  Albert  calls  you.  You  seem  to  say 
ves.  And  every  day  Consuelo  left  her  window  with  a smile  on  her 
lips,  and  a calm  and  gentle  light  burning  in  her  heart. 

After  the  end  of  a month  she  wrote  to  Albert,  with  a calm  head, 
very  slowly,  and  almost  feeling  her  pulse  at  every  letter  her  hand 
traced : — 

“ I love  you  only.  I am  almost  sure  that  I love  you.  Now,  let  me 
dream  of  the  possibility  of  our  union.  Dream  of  it  yourself,  also. 
Let  us  contrive  together  on  means  neither  to  distress  your  father  nor 
your  mother,  nor  to  become  egotistical  in  becoming  happy.” 

In  this  letter  she  enclosed  a brief  note  to  Count  Christian,  in  which 
she  told  him  how  calmly  she  lived,  and  told  him  of  the  respite  which 
the  new  plans  of  Porpora  had  left  her.  She  requested  that  a means 
might  be  found  to  soothe  Porpora,  and  asked  for  a reply  in  a month. 
She  would  then  have  one  month  to  prepare  the  maestro,  before  the 
matters  in  Berlin  should  be  decided  on. 

Consuelo,  having  sealed  the  two  notes,  put  them  on  the  table,  and 
went  to  sleep.  A delicious  calm  had  filled  her  soul,  and  never  for  a 
long  time  had  she  enjoyed  so  calm  and  delicious  a sleep.  It  was  late 
when  she  awoke.  She  was  anxious  to  see  Keller,  who  had  promised 
to  come  to  see  her  at  eight  o'clock.  It  was  nine,  and  as  she  dressed 
herself,  Consuelo  saw  with  terror  that  the  letter  was  not  where  she 
had  placed  it.  She  looked  every  where  for  it,  and  went  to  see  if  Kel- 
ler was  not  waiting  for  her  in  the  antechamber.  Neither  Keller  nor 
Haydn  were  there ; and,  as  she  was  about  to  return  to  look  again  for 
it  in  her  room,  she  saw  Porpora  approach  her  and  Look  sternly  at  her, 
“ What  are  you  looking  for  ? ” he  said. 

“ A sheet  of  music  I have  lost.” 

* That  is  not  true ; you  are  looking  for  a letter.” 

“ Maestro ! ” 

“ Be  silent,  Consuelo,  you  know  not  how  to  deceive  as  yet  Do  not 
learn  to  do  so.” 

“ Maestro,  whit  have  you  done  with  that  letter?” 

“ Given  it  to  Keller ” 

“ Why — why  did  you  ? ” 

“ Because  he  came  for  it.  You  sent  for  him  yesterday.  You  do 
not  know  how  tc  deceive,  Consuelo,  or  I have  a more  acute  ear  than 
you  think.” 

“ Again,”  said  Consuelo,  with  emotion,  “ I ask  you,  what  you  have 
done  with  the  letter  ? ” 

“ I have  told  you.  Do  not  ask  me  again.  I think  it  very  wrong 
that  a young  girl,  honest  as  I think  you  are,  should  give  letters  to  her 
hair-dresser.  To  prevent  this  man  from  entertaining  an  erroneous 
idea  of  you,  I gave  him  the  letters  calmly,  and  bade  him  send  .hem 
for  you.  He  will  not  think  you  are  concealing  any  guilty  secret  from 
you  adopted  father.” 

“ Maestro,  you  are  right — you  did  well.  Forgive  me.” 

“ I do ; let  us  talk  of  the  matter  no  more.” 

u And — did  you  read  the  letter  ? ” asked  Consuelo,  with  a timid  and 
nppliant  expression. 

“ For  what  do  you  take  rue?  ” said  Porpora,  angrily. 


u Forgive  me,”  said  Consuelo,  kneeling  before  him,  and  seeking  to 

lake  his  hand ; “ let  me  open  my  heart  to  you ” 

“ Not  a word  more,’’  said  Porpora,  repelling  her.  He  then  left  the 
room,  shutting  the  door  loudly  as  he  passed  from  it. 

Consuelo  hoped  that  this  first  storm  having  passed  by,  she  might,  by 
a decisive  explanation,  appease  him.  She  felt  that  she  had  power 
enough  to  tell  him  all  she  thought,  and  flattered  herself  that  sh# 
would  hasten  the  issue  of  her  plans : he,  however,  would  hear  nc  ex* 
planation,  and  his  severity  in  relation  to  that  was  unalterable.  Bo 
sides,  he  testified  as  much  kindness  to  her  as  usual ; and  thenceforth 
exhibited  more  apparent  mirth  and  gratification.  From  this  Consu- 
elo conceived  a good  augury,  and  waited  impatiently  for  the  answer 
fiom  Riesenberg. 

Porpora  had  not  read — he  had  burned  Consuelo’s  letters  without 
reading  them — but  had  substituted  for  them  another  to  Count  Chris- 
tian. He  thought  this  prudent  step  had  saved  his  pupil  and  preserved 
old  Rudolstadt  from  a greater  sacrifice  than  he  was  capable  of.  He 
fancied  he  had  acted  towards  him  like  a faithful  friend,  and  towards 
Consuelo  like  an  energetic  and  kind  father.  He  did  not  think  he 
might  have  given  Count  Albert  a death  blow.  He  thought -Consuelo 
had  exaggerated  matters — that  the  young  man  was  neither  so  much 
in  love  nor  so  ill  as  they  fancied.  In  fine,  like  all  old  men,  he  thought 
that  love  passes  away,  and  that  it  kills  no  one. 


CHAPTER  XCL 

Expecting  an  answer  which  would  never  come,  for  Porpora  had 
burned  her  letter,  Consuelo  continued  her  calm  and  studious  life. 
Her  presence  attracted  “to  Madame  Wilhelmina’s  some  very  distin- 
guished persons,  whom  she  was  pleased  to  see  frequently.  Among 
others,  was  Baron  Frederick  Trenck,  with  whom  she  felt" a tone  of 
sympathy.  He  had  tact  enough  the  first  time  he  saw  her,  not  to  ap- 
proach her  like  an  old  acquaintance,  but  to  ask  for  an  introduction, 
after  he  had  heard  her  sing,  as  any  delighted  auditor  might  do.  When 
she  met  this  brave  and  handsome  young  man,  who  had  so  bravely 
rescued  her  from  Mayer  and  his  band,  the  impulse  of  Consuelo  was  to 
offer  him  her  hand.  The  baron,  who  did  not  wish  her  to  commit  any 
imprudence  on  his  account,  took  her  hand  respectfully,  as  if  he  were 
about  to  lead  her  back  to  tier  chair,  and  to  thank  her  for  her  kindness, 
pressed  it  gently.  She  afterwards  heard  from  Joseph,  who  gave  him 
music  lessons,  that  he  always  asked  after  her  wfith  interest,  and  spoke 
of  her  with  admiration ; but  that,  from  a feeling  of  propriety,  he  never 
made  any  allusion  to  the  motives  of  her  disguise,  the  reasons  for  her 
adventurous  voyage,  and  the  nature  of  their  feelings  to  each  other. 

“I  do  not  know,”  said  Joseph,  “ what  he  thinks,  but  I assure  you 
he  speaks  of  no  woman  in  the  world  wi  h more  respect.” 

“ If  that  be  so,”  said  Consuelo,  “ 1 authorise  you  to  tell  him  all 
our  history,  and  all  my  career,  without.,  of  course,  mentioning  the 
family  of  Rudolstadt.  I wish  to  possess  all  the  esteem  of  that  man,  to 
whom  we  are  indebted  for  our  liv  ;s,  and  who  has,  in  every  respect 
acted  so  nobly  towards  irn*  ” 


OONSU1LO, 


451 


▲ few  weeks  afterwards,  Yon  Trenck,  having  terminated  hb  mis- 
sion at  Vienna,  was  suddenly  recalled  by  Frederick,  and  came  one 
day  to  the  embassy  to  bid  adieu  to  Korner.  Consuelo  was  coining 
down  the  stairway,  to  go  out,  and  met  him  in  the  portico.  As  they 
were  alone,  he  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  tenderly. 

“ Permit  me,”  said  he,  “ to  express  for  the  first  and  probably  for  the 
iast  time,  in  my  life,  the  feelings  with  which  my  breast  is  filled.  It 
needed  not  for  Beppo  to  tell  me  your  history,  to  be  filled  with  vene- 
ration for  you.  There  are  faces  which  never  deceive  us,  and  one 
glance  sufficed  to  enable  me  to  see  in  you  great  power  and  nobleness 
of  heart.  Had  I known  at  Passau  that  Joseph  was  so  little  on  his 
guard,  I would  have  protected  you  from  the  rudeness  of  Count 
Hoditz,  the  intentions  of  whom  I could  not  but  foresee,  in  spite  of 
my  efforts  to  make  him  understand  that  he  toiled  in  vain,  and  would 
make  himself  ridiculous.  Besides,  Hoditz  himself  told  me  that  you 
laughed  at  him,  and  he  is  as  much  obliged  to  you  as  possible  for  hav- 
ing kept  his  secret.  I shall  never  forget  the  romantic  adventure 
which  procured  me  the  happiness  of  your  acquaintance,  and  which  I 
shall  never  cease  to  reckon  among  the  happiest  events  of  my  life, 
even  though  it  cost  me  my  future  success  and  fortune.” 

“Think  you,  then,  it  is  likely  to  have  such  results? ” 

“I  trust  not.  Yet,  in  Prussia  anything  may  happen.” 

“You  make  me  tremble  at  the  King  of  Prussia.  But  do  not 
think,  baron,  that  it  is  at  all  impossible  that  ere  long  I shall  meet  you. 
I may  be  engaged  at  Berlin.” 

“Indeed,”  said  Trenck,  and  his  face  suddenly  lighted  up  with  an 
expression  of  joy.  “ God  grant  that  this  plan  may  be  realized.  At 
Berlin  I can  serve  you,  and  you  may  rely  on  me  as  on  a brother. 
Yes,  Consuelo,  I feel  a brother’s  affection  for  you ; and,  were  I un- 
trammeled, would,  perhaps,  be  unable  to  defend  myself  from  a yet 
tenderer  sentiment.  You,  too,  are  not  free;  and  solemn  eternal  ties 
do  not  permit  me  to  envy  the  happy  gentleman  who  may  ask  for  your 
h*md.  Whoever  he  be,  madam,  rely  on  the  fact,  that  if  he  pleases,  I 
will  be  his  friend;  and  if  he  does  not,  that  I will  be  his  champion 
against  the  prejudices  of  the  world.  . . . Alas ! Consuelo,  I also 
have  a terrible  barrier  between  her  I love  and  myself.  The  person 
though,  whom  you  love  is  a man,  and  can  break  down  the  barrier; 
while  the  one  who  is  dear  to  me  is  a woman,  without  power,  strength, 
or  liberty  to  do  so.” 

“ With  her,  then,  will  it  be  impossible  for  me  to  do  anything  in 
your  behalf,”  said  Consuelo.  “ For  the  first  time,  I regret  the  impo- 
tence of  my  situation.” 

“Who  knows?”  said  the  baron,  anxiously.  “You  may,  perhaps, 
be  more  powerful  than  you  think;  at  least,  to  lessen  the  horror  01 
our  separation.  Will  you  not  encounter  some  danger  for  me?  ” 

“ With  the  same  pleasure  that  you  exposed  your  life  in  my  behalf.” 
“ Well — I rely  on  you.  Remember  this  promise,  Consuelo.  Per- 
haps I may  recal  this  to  you  some  day,  unexpectedly.” 

“ At  whatever  hour  of  my  life  you  may  do  so,  I will  not  be  unmind- 
ful of  it,”  said  she,  giving  him  her  hand. 

“ Well,”  said  he,  “give  me  some  token,  some  valueless  pledge,  that 
may,  when  the  time  comes,  remind  you  of  it : I have  a presentiment 
that  great  contests  await  me,  and  a "time  may  come,  when  my  signa- 
ture may  compromise  her  and  yru.” 

* Will  you  take  this  sheet  of  music  I was  about  to  take  to  a pupj 


C0N8UEL0, 


452 

af  the  maestro?  I can  easily  get  another,  and  on  this  I will  • 
mark  to  enable  me,  some  day,  to  recognise  it.” 

“ Why  not?  A sheet  of  music  is,  perhaps,  the  thing  most  likely  to 
be  sent  without  awakening  suspicion.  That  it  may  be  of  use  to  me 
more  than  once,  I will  separate  the  leaves.  Make  a mark  on  each  of 
the  pages.” 

Consuelo,  leaning  on  the  staircase,  wrote  the  name  of  Bertoni  on 
each  leaf.  The  baron  folded  it  up  and  carried  it  away,  after  having 
promised  our  heroine  eternal  friendship. 

At  this  time,  Madame  Tesi  became  sick,  and  the  performances  at 
the  Imperial  Theatre  were  on  the  point  of  being  suspended,  for  she 
had  the  most  important  roles.  La  Corilla  had  a right  to  insist  on  re- 
placing her.  She  had  great  success  both  with  the  court  and  the  peo- 
ple. Her  beauty  and  coquetry  turned  the  heads  of  all  those  simple 
German  lords,  no  one  observing  that  her  voice  was  rather  hoarse  and 
that  she  was  rather  epileptic.  Every  handsome  woman  on  the  stage 
seemed  a great  artist  to  them.  Her  snowy  shoulders  uttered  wonder- 
ful notes,  her  round  and  voluptuous  tones  sang  always  correctly,  and 
her  superb  attitudes  gave  wonderful  expression  to  the  music.  In 
spite  of  the  pure  musical  taste,  which  was  so  highly  extolled,  all  felt 
the  influence  of  the  fascination  of  her  eye,  and  Corilla  prepared  in  her 
boudoir  many  minds  to  be  completely  dragged  away  upon  the  stage. 

She  then  presented  herself  boldly  to  sing  ad  interim , the  roles  of  la 
Tesi ; the  difficulty  was  to  find  some  one  to  replace  her  in  her  own.  The 
seedy  voice  of  Madame  Holzbaiier  put  her  out  of  the  question.  It 
was  therefore  necessary  to  employ  Corilla  or  put  up  with  something 
very  commonplace.  Porpora  made  the  most  unearthly  efforts.  Me- 
tastasio,  extremely  disconcerted  with  the  Lombard  pronunciation  of 
Corilla,  and  indignant  at  the  effort  she  made  to  depress  all  other  roles 
than  her  own,  (contrary  to  the  spirit  of  the  poem,  and  destroying  all 
dramatic  effect,)  did  not  conceal  his  dissatisfaction,  and  his  sympathy 
for  the  silent  and  intelligent  Porporina.  Caffariello  was  very  assidu- 
ous in  his  court  to  Madame  Tesi,  and  she,  cordially  detesting  Corilla 
for  having  disputed  with  her  the  sceptre  of  beauty,  was  strenuous  in 
favor  of  the  employment  of  Consuelo.  Holzbaiier  was  anxious  that 
his  management  should  succeed;  but,  terrified  at  the  ascendancy 
Porporina  would  soon  acquire  if  she  had  even  the  right  of  entree  into 
the  green-room,  did  not  know  which  way  to  look.  The  good  conduct 
of  Consuelo  had  gained  her  so  many  friends,  that  it  would  be  difficult 
to  impose  any  longer  on  the  empress.  In  consequence  of  all  these 
circumstances,  offers  were  made  to  Consuelo.  By  offering  a scandal- 
ously low  price,  it  was  hoped  that  she  would  be  induced  to  decline 
them.  Porpora,  though,  accepted  them  at  once,  as  usual,  without 
consulting 'her.  One  fine  morning,  therefore,  Consuelo  found  herself 
engaged  for  six  representations,  without  being  able  to  decline,  and 
without  knowing  why.  After  patiently  waiting  six  weeks,  she  received 
no  letter  from  the  Rudolstadts.  She  was  hurried  by  Porpora  to  the 
representation  of  Metastasio’s  Antigone , the  music  by  Hasse. 

Consuelo  had  already  studied  her  part  with  Porpora.  It  was  doubt- 
less most  disagreeable  to  the  latter  to  teach  his  pupil  the  music  of  a 
rival  composer,  the  most  ungrateful  of  his  pupils,  and  the  rival  he 
hated  worse  than  any : it  was  necessary,  though,  to  do  so  for  the  pur- 
pose of  opening  the  door  to  his  own  compositions,  and  Porpora  was 
too  conscientious  a professor,  and  too  honest  an  artist,  not  to  be  zeal- 
ous and  careful  as  possible.  Consuelo  assisted  him  so  zealously  that 


CONSUELO* 


45S 


Im  was  at  once  delighted  and  distressed.  In  spite  of  her  wishes,  she 
thought  Hasse’s  music  magnificent,  and  her  aoul  seemed  more  delight- 
ed in  the  tender  and  passsonate  strains  of  the  Sassone,  than  in  the 
often  naked  and  cold  grandeur  of  Porpora.  Accustomed,  when  she 
studied  the  other  great  masters,  to  give  way  to  her  own  enthusiasm* 
she  was  now  forced  to  repress  it,  when  she  saw  the  sadness  of  his 
brow,  and  his  reverie  after  the  lesson.  When  she  went  on  the  stage 
to  rehearse  with  Caffariello  and  Corilla,  though  she  knew  her  part 
very  well,  she  felt  such  excitement  that  she  enulu  scarcely  open  the 
scene  of  Ismene  Berenice,  beginning: 

•4  No  tutto ; O Berenice. 

Tu  non  aprl  il  tuo  cor,"  eta 

To  which  Corilla  replied : 

•*  — E ti  par  poco 

Quel  che  sal  de’  mlel  casl?  " 

At  that  place  Corilla  was  interrupted  by  a burs#  of  laughter  fron 
Caffariello.  Turning  round,  with  her  eyes  sparkling  with  rage,  sht» 

said : — 

“ What  is  it  that  amuses  you  so  much  ? ” 

“ You  are  right,  my  Berenice,”  said  Caffariello,  laughing  louder. 
“You  could  say  nothing  more  true.” 

“ Do  the  words  amuse  you  ? ” said  Holzbaiier,  who  would  have 
liked  to  tell  Metastasio  that  the  tenor  laughed  at  his  voice. 

“ The  words  are  beautiful,”  said  Caffariello  drily,  for  he  knew  pre- 
cisely the  state  of  affairs.  “ They  suit  the  case,  however,  so  exactly 
that  I could  not  but  laugh.” 

He  again  laughed  as  he  repeated  to  Porpora : — 

44 E ti  par  poco 

Quel  ohe  sal  di  tanti  caai  ? ” 

Corilla  saw  this  criticism  referred  to  her  morals,  and,  trembling 
with  anger,  hatred  and  fear,  felt  as  if  she  could  have  torn  Consuelo’s 
eyes  out.  Her  face  was,  however,  so  calm  and  gentle,  that  one  dared 
not.  Besides,  in  the  dim  light  which  fell  on  the  stage,  she  paused  aa 
if  she  were  struck  with  vague  reminiscences,  and  strange  terrors. 
She  had  never  seen  her  by  daylight,  nor  so  closely,  while  at  Ventee, 
Amid  the  pains  of  childbirth,  she  had  indistinctly  seen  the  little  Zin- 
gara  Bertoni  hovering  confusedly  around  her,  and  did  not  understand 
her  devotion.  She  now  sought  to  recal  her  memories ; but  not  suc- 
ceeding in  doing  so,  she  stood  .for  a moment  under  the  influence  of 
an  uneasy  sensation,  which  clung  to  her  during  the  whole  rehearsal. 
The  manner  in  which  Consuelo  sang  her  part  contributed  not  a little 
to  her  ill  humor,  and  the  presence  of  her  old  master,  Porpora,  who 
like  a stern  judge,  heard  her  in  silence,  and  almost  in  contempt,  be- 
came a real  punishment  to  her.  Holzbaiier  was  not  less  mortified, 
when  the  maestro  said  his  accompaniments  cut  across  the  voice,  and 
he  must  have  known  it,  having  been  present  at  the  rehearsals  Hass# 
had  himself  directed  at  Dresden,  when  the  opera  was  first  put  on  ths 
stage.  The  need  he  had  of  a good  adviser  made  him  conceal  his  il) 
hnmor,  and  forced  him  to  be  silent.  He  conducted  the  whole  re- 
hearsal, taught  each  one  what  to  do,  and  even  corrected  Caffariello, 
who  pretended  to  submit,  to  induce  others  to  do  so.  Caffariello  had 
no  object  but  to  mortify  the  impertinent  rival  of  Tesi,  and  he  w ^s 
willing  to  do  anything  foi  that  gratification — even  to  submit  and  cr 


C GNS  UKLO. 


be  modest.  Artists  and  diplomats  are,  in  this  particular,  alike  la  the 
theatre  ai  d in  the  council  chamber — the  most  beautiful,  and  the  re- 
verse, find  their  causes  in  the  most  frivolous  and  trifling  matters. 

When  she  returned,  after  the  rehearsal,  Consuelo  found  Joseph 
ESOfit  mysteriously  joyful;  and  when  they  could  speak  together,  she 
learned  that  the  good  canon  had  come  to  Vienna,  and  had  immedh 
ately  asked  for  his  dear  Beppo,  of  whom,  while  eating  a good  break- 
fast, he  had  asked  a thousand  things  about  that  dear  lad , BertonL 
They  had  contrived  a way  for  him  to  become  acquainted  with  Porpo- 
ra,  that  he  might  see  her  openly,  and  without  concealment.  On  the 
next  day,  the  canon  procured  an  introduction,  as  a protector  of  Jo- 
seph Haydn,  a great  admirer  of  Porpora,  and  under  the  pretence  of 
coming  to  thank  him  for  the  lessons  he  had  given  to  his  young  friend, 
Consuelo  seemed  to  speak  to  him  for  the  first  time ; and  at  night,  the 
priest,  Porpora  and  his  two  pupils  all  dined  with  the  canon.  Without 
pretending  to  a stoicism,  which  was  not  the  want  of  musicians  of  any 
class  of  that  age,  Porpora  could  not  but  form  a sudden  affection  for 
the  good  canon,  who  had  so  excellent  a table,  and  was  so  excellent  an 
admirer  of  his  books.  After  dinner  they  had  music,  and  subsequent- 
ly they  met  every  day. 

This  somewhat  atoned  for  the  uneasiness  created  by  the  silence  of 
Albert.  The  canon  loved  enjoyments  of  a chaste,  but  at  the  same 
time,,  liberal  character,  and  was,  in  relation  to  some  matters,  a fop, 
and  in  others  just  and  enlightened.  He  was,  in  fact,  an  excellent 
friend,  and  a perfectly  amiable  man.  His  society  animated  and 
strengthened  the  maestro,  whose  manners  became  more  gentle ; and, 
consequently,  the  in-door  life  of  Consuelo  more  agreeable. 

One  day,  when  they  had  no  rehearsal,  (it  was  the  day  before  the 
representation  of  Antigone,*)  Porpora  had  gone  into  the  country  with 
a friend,  the  canon  proposed  to  his  young  friends  to  visit  the  priory, 
to  surprise  those  he  had  left  there,  and  to  ascertain,  by  falling  like  a 
bomb  in  the  garden,  if  Angela  was  well  taken  care  of,  and  if  the  gar- 
dener neglected  the  volkameria.  The  proposition  was  agreed  to,  and 
the  canon’s  carriage  filled  up  with  pates , (for  one  could  not  travel  four 
leagues  without  an  appetite.)  They  came  to  their  destination  after 
having  made  a little  detour,  and  left  the  carriage  in  order  to  make  the 
surprise  more  complete. 

The  volkameria  was  in  perfect  condition ; it  was  warm  weather, 
and  the  roots  were  fresh.  It  had  ceased  to  flower  since  the  cold  had 
set  in,  but  its  leaves  hung  without  languor  over  the  trunk.  The 
hedge  was  well  trimmed,  and  the  blue  chrysanthemums  braved  the 
winter,  and  seemed  to  smile  under  their  glass  shelters.  Angela,  at  the 
breast  of  the  nurse,,  was  smiling  also  when  she  was  excited  by  ca- 
resses, and  the  canon  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  wrong  to  force 
her  good  humor,  for  to  compel  these  frail  creatures  to  smile  often  dis- 
poses them  to  a too  nervous  temperament. 

They  were  all  enjoying  themselves  in  the  garden  house,  the  canon, 
wrapped  up  in  his  furred  pelisse,  was  warming  his  shins  before  a large 
fire  of  dried*  branches  and  pine  cones,  Joseph  was  playing  with  the 
fine  children  of  the  gardener’s  handsome  wife,  and  Consuelo  saFin  the 
centre  of  the  room,  with  Angela  in  her  arms,  and  was  gazing  at  her 
with  a mingled  expression  of  tenderness  and  sorrow.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  this  child  was  rather  hers  than  another  s,  and  that  a myste- 
rious fatality  united  its  delicate  existence  to  her  own,  when  the  door 
suddenly  opened,  and  la  Gorilla  stood  before  her  like  an  apparitieu 
evoked  by  her  melancholy  reverie. 


CONIUKLO< 


465 


For  the  first  time  since  the  day  of  her  delivery,  la  Corllla  had  fclt, 
If  not  a feeling  of  love,  an  attack  of  maternal  remorse,  and  she  came 
secretly  to  s<L  her  child.  She  knew  that  the  canon  was  at  Vienna 
and  coming  after  him  with  the  interval  of  half  an  hour,  and  not  find- 
ing any  marks  of  carriage-wheels  near  the  priory,  in  consequence  of 
his  having  made  a detour  before  he  came  to  the  house,  she  entered 
furtively  and  unseen  until  she  came  to  the  gardener’s  house,  where 
Angela’s  nurse  lived,  (she  had  informed  herself  of  all  this).  She  had 
laughed  at  the  good  canon’s  embarrassment  and  Christian  resignation, 
but  was  utterly  ignorant  of  the  part  Consuelo  had  taken  in  the  mat- 
ter. With  mingled  surprise  and  terror,  then,  she  saw  her  rival,  and 
not  knowing  nor  daring  to  think  what  child  she  thus  petted,  she  was 
about  to  turn  on  her  heel  and  fly.  Consuelo,  though,  by  an  instinc- 
tive movement,  had  clasped  the  child  to  her  bosom,  as  the  partridge 
hides  her  young  when  the  kite  hovers  above  them.  Consuelo,  who 
now  was  at  the  theatre,  and  who  the  next  day  might  describe  the 
under-plot  of  the  drama  she  was  playing,  and  even  describe  her  man- 
ner, held  her  overpowered  and  fascinated,  as  if  by  a spell,  nailed  to 
the  centre  of  the  room. 

La  Corilla,  though,  was  too  consummate  an  actress  not  to  regain 
her  presence  of  mind  in  a very  short  time.  It  was  her  plan  to  pre- 
vent a humiliation  by  an  insult ; and  to  get  herself  in  voice,  began 
her  part  by  an  apostrophe  in  the  Venetian  dialect,  the  tone  of  which 
is  short  and  hissing. 

“ Eh  1 pardieu  I la  Zingarella— this  house  seems  a foundling  hospi- 
tal. Have  you  also  come  to  seek  for,  or  to  leave  one  of  yours  ? I see 
we  run  the  same  chances  and  risks.  Our  two  children,  beyond  doubt, 
have  the  same  father,  our  adventures  dating  from  Venice  at  the  same 
time.  And  I see  with  compassion  that  it  was  not  to  rejoin  you  as  I 
thought  that  the  handsome  Anzoleto  so  brusquely  abandoned  me  in 
the  midst  of  his  engagement  at  Venice  last  season.” 

“ Madam,”  said  Consuelo,  very  pale,  but  very  calm,  “ had  I been  so 
unfortunate  as  to  be  to  Anzoleto  what  you  were,  I would  at  least 
have  had  the  reward  of  being  a mother,  (they  must  feel,)  and  my 
child  would  not  be  here.” 

u Ah ! I understand,”  said  Corilla,  with  a sombre  glare  in  her  eyes ; 
Mhe  would  have  been  at  the  villa  Zustiniani;  you  would  have  been 
able  to  do  what  I could  not,  persuade  the  dear  count  that  honor 
forced  him  to  recognise  it.  You  had  not,  though,  what  you  call  the 
misfortune  of  being  the  mistress  of  Anzoleto,  and  Zustiniani  left  no 
proofs  of  his  love  with  you.  They  say  Joseph  Haydn,  Porpora’s  pu- 
pil, consoled  you  for  all  your  misfortunes,  and,  beyond  doubt,  is  the 
father  of  the  child  you  hold  in  your  arms.” 

“ This  child,  madam,  is  your  own,”  said  Joseph,  for  he  understood 
Italian  very  well,  and  advanced  between  Consuelo  and  Corilla,  so  tha* 
the  latter  shrank  back.  “ Joseph  Haydn  assures  you  of  the  fact,  hav- 
ing been  present  at  its  birth.” 

The  face  of  Haydn,  which  Corilla  had  never  seen  since  that  unfor- 
tunate day,  recalled  all  the  events  which  she  had  before  attempted  to. 
The  Zingara  Bertoni  appeared  before  her  as  the  Zingarella  Consuelo. 
A cry  as  of  surprise  escaped  from  her  lips,  and  for  a moment  shame 
and  pique  contended  for  the  ascendancy.  Ill  humor  soon,  though,  re- 
turned to  her  heart  and  sneers  to  her  lips.  “ Indeed,  my  children,” 
said  she,  with  an  atrociously  benignant  air,  “ I have  not  forgotten 
sw.  You  were  each  very  good,  before  all  these  strange  things  hap* 


466 


CONSUELO. 


pened,  and  Consuelo  in  her  disguise  was  really  a handsome  lad.  H 
was  then  in  this  holy  house  that  she  passed  her  time  in  devotion, 
dividing  her  hours  between  the  precious  canon  and  the  good  Joseph, 
since  the  time  she  left  Venice  ? Well,  Zingarella,  let  us  not  make  each 
. other  uneasy.  We  know  each  other's  secrets,  and  the  empress,  who 
wishes  to  know  everything,  will  be  able  to  blame  neither  the  one  nof 
the  other.” 

“ Suppose  even  I had  a secret,”  said  Consuelo,  “ you  know  nothing 
of  it.  I,  however,  learned  yours,  when  I had  a conversation  of  an 
hour's  duration  with  the  empress,  three  days,  Corilla,  before  you  made 
your  engagement.” 

“And  you  sought  to  injure  me?”  said  Corilla,  becoming  flushet 
with  anger. 

“ Had  I told  her  what  I knew  of  you,  your  engagement  never  would 
have  been  made.  If  you  are  now  employed,  it  is  because  I was  un- 
willing to  take  an  advantage  of  my  opportunities.” 

“ But  why  did  you  not?  You  must  have  been  a great  fool,”  said 
Corilla  with  a candor  and  perversity  of  heart,  which  were  wonderful 
to  see. 

Consuelo  and  Joseph  could  not  repress  a smile  as  they  heard  her. 
Joseph's  was  full  or  contempt — that  of  Consuelo  was  angelic  and 
looked  to  heaven. 

“ Yes,  madam,”  said  she,  with  overpowering  gentleness,  “I  am  fool- 
ish, as  you  say  I am,  and  am  glad  of  it.” 

“ No  I no ! my  child ; for  I have  an  engagement  and  you  have  not,” 
said  Corilla  amazed  and  reckless.  “ They  told  me  at  Venice  that  you 
had  no  mind,  and  never  could  succeed.  That  is  the  only  truth  An- 
zoleto  ever  uttered  about  you.  What  then?  that  is  not  my  fault. 
Had  I been  in  your  place,  I would  have  told  all  I knew  of  la  Corilla, 
and  would  have  represented  myself  as  a virgin  and  as  a saint.  The 
empress  would  have  believed  it,  and  I would  have  supplanted  every 
rival.” 

At  first  contempt  was  more  powerful  than  indignation.  Consuelo 
and  Haydn  laughed  loud  and  long,  and  la  Corilla  who,  in  becoming 
aware  of  what  she  called  the  impotence  of  her  rival,  lost  the  aggres- 
sive bitterness  which  had  characterised  her,  drew  up  a chair  near  the 
fire,  and  sought  to  resume  the  conversation,  for  the  purpose  of  sound- 
ing the  strong  and  weak  points  of  her  adversaries.  Just  then  her  eye 
fell  on  the  canon,  whom  she  had  not  previously  seen,  because  the  latr 
ter,  guided  by  an  instinct  of  prudence  peculiar  to  his  profession,  had 
by  a gesture,  bidden  the  fat  nurse  and  her  children  to  stand  before  him, 
until  he  should  have  gathered  the  purport  of  what  was  going  on. 


CHAPTER  XCIL 

After  the  insinuation  which  she  had  uttered  a few  minutes  previ- 
ously, about  the  connections  between  Consuelo  and  the  priest,  the  ap* 

Garance  of  the  latter  had  on  Corilla  almost  the  effect  of  the  head  of 
edusa.  She  gradually,  though,  recovered  her  mind,  when  she  re- 
flected that  she  had  spoken  Venetian,  and  at  once  spoke  to  him  in 
Sterman,  with  that  mixture  of  embarrassment  and  effrontery  which 


CONSUELO, 


467 

M the  characteristic  of  an  immodest  woman.  The  canon,  ordinarily 
polished  and  polite  in  his  own  house,  did  not  quit  his  seat  and  did  not 
•Ten  return  her  salute.  Corilla,  who  had  asked  about  him  in  Vienna^ 
had  heard  all  say  he  was  extremely  well-bred,  passionately  fond  of 
music,  and  absolutely  incapable  of  lecturing  a woman,  especially  a 
singer,  severely.  She  had  intended  to  go  and  see  him  and  to  fascinate 
him  so  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  scold  her.  Though  in  matters  of 
this  kind,  she  had  the  kind  of  sense  in  which  Consuelo  was  deficient, 
she  had  that  negligence  and  disregard  of  propriety  which  is  the  con- 
sequence of  disorder,  idleness,  and — though  this  may  seem  perhaps 
extravagant — evil  deportment.  In  persons  of  gross  organizations  all 
these  things  are  linked  together.  Weakness  of  body  and  mind  make 
intrigue  powerless,  and  Corilla,  who  had  an  instinctive  perception  of 
perfidy  of  every  kind,  had  not  often  sufficient  capacity  to  lead  a plot 
to  a successful  termination.  She  had  therefore  postponed  from  day 
to  day  her  visit  to  the  canon ; and  when  she  found  him  so  cold  and 
stern,  began  to  be  visibly  disconcerted. 

Then  seeking  to  resume  her  position  by  a coup  de  main , she  said  to 
Consuelo,  who  yet  held  Angela  in  her  arms — “ Well,  why  do  you  not 
suffer  me  to  kiss  my  child  and  place  it  at  his  reverence’s  feet,  that—” 

“ Dame  Corilla”  said  the  canon,  in  the  dry  and  mocking  tone  in 
which  he  had  previously  said  Dame  Bridget,  “ suffer  that  child  to  be 
unmolested.”  Then  speaking  Italian  with  a great  deal  of  elegance, 
though  perhaps  too  slowly  and  with  too  much  accent,  he  continued, 
without  uncovering  himself— “ I have  been  listening  to  you  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  though  not  very  familiar  with  your  patois,  I 
have  heard  enough  to  authorise  me  to  say  that  you  are  the  most  im- 
pudent person  of  your  sex  I ever  met  with.  I think,  however,  you 
are  rather  stupid  than  depraved,  rather  contemptible  than  dangerous. 
You  have  no  idea  of  the  beautiful,  and  it  would  be  useless  to  seek  to 
make  you  comprehend  it.  I have  but  one  thing  to  say ; this  young 
girl,  this  virgin  as  you  called  her  just  now  in  derision,  has  been  sullied 
by  your  having  spoken  to  her,  and  you  shall  do  so  no  more.  The 
child  you  have  given  birth  to  shall  not  be  sullied  by  your  touch ; so 
do  not  lay  your  hands  on  it.  Consuelo  has  said,  4 it  is  a holy  thing,1 
and  I know  it  is.  Through  her  intercession  I took  charge  of  it,  and 
did  not  fancy  that  the  perverse  instincts  it  inherited  from  you  one 
day  might  make  me  repent  having  done  so.  We  have  been  told  that 
divine  goodness  gives  to  every  being  the  power  to  know  and  practice 
virtue,  and  we  have  resolved  to  teach  it  what  is  right,  and  render  it 
amiable  and  docile.  Henceforth,  then,  do  not  look  on  this  child  as 
your  own.  You  have  abandoned  it,  and  given  it  up.  It  does  not  be- 
long to  you.  You  have  deposited  a sum  of  money  to  pay  for  its  edu- 
cation.” He  made  a sign  to  the  gardener’s  wife,  who  on  an  intima- 
tion from  him  a few  minutes  before,  had  taken  a bag  with  a seal  at- 
tached to  it,  from  the  chest.  This  was  what  Corilla  had  sent  with  her 
daughter  to  the  priest,  and  which  had  never  been  opened.  He  took 
the  bag  and  threw  it  at  Corilla’s  feet.  “We  have  nothing  to  do  with 
that,  nor  do  we  wish  to.  Now  I beg  you  to  leave  my  house  and  never 
enter  it  again,  under  any  possible  pretext.  On  these  conditions,  and 
provided  you  will  never  open  your  mouth  in  relation  to  the  circum- 
stances which  made  me  acquairted  with  you,  we  will  promise  the 
most  absolute  silence  in  relation  to  all  that  relates  to  you.  If  you  act 
In  any  other  manner  I warn  you ; I have  more  means  than  you  fancy, 
to  inform  her  imperial  majesty  of  the  state  of  affairs;  and  you  may 


CONSUELO, 


468 

mb  the  wreaths  thrown  at  your  feet  on  the  stage  and  the  applaua*  el 
your  admirers,  changed  into  a sojourn  of  several  years  In  a Magdalea 
convent.” 

When  he  had  concluded,  the  canon  arose  and  by  a sign  bade  the 
nurse  take  the  child,  and  Consuelo  and  Joseph  go  to  the  other  end  ot 
the  room.  He  then  pointed  out  the  door  to  Gorilla,  who,  terrified, 
pale,  and  trembling,  left  convulsively  and  half-crazed,  without  know- 
ing whither  she  went  or  what  had  happened. 

During  this  kind  of  imprecation  the  canon  felt  like  an  honest  man 
who  gradually  had  from  indignation  become  terribly  excited.  Con- 
suelo and  Joseph  had  never  before  seen  him  angry.  A priest 
though,  never  loses  the  habit  of  command,  and  the  air  of  royal  rul« 
which  passes  into  the  blood  and  which  in  an  instant  betrayed  tht 
bastard  of  Augustus  II.,  covered  the  canon,  perhaps  unknown  U 
himself,  with  a kind  of  irresistible  majesty. 

La  Corilla,  to  whom,  perhaps,  no  man  had  ever  spoken  in  such 
terms  of  austere  truth  before,  felt  more  terror  and  alarm  than  her 
most  furious  lovers  had  ever  inspired  in  their  wildest  displays  of  fury 
and  revenge.  An  Italian,  and  therefore  superstitious,  she  was  terri- 
fied at  the  priest  and  his  anathema,  and  fled  through  the  garden  while 
the  canon,  exhausted  by  an  effort  so  contrary  to  his  habit  of  enjoy- 
ment and  pleasure,  fell  back  on  his  chair  pale  and  exhausted. 

All  hurried  to  his  assistance,  though  Consuelo  looked  after  the 
trembling  and  vacillating  steps  of  Corilla.  She  saw  her  fall  at  the 
end  of  the  alley  on  the  grass,  either  from  having  trembled  in  her 
trouble,  or  because  her  strength  could  no  longer  support  her.  Led 
away  by  her  kindness,  and  finding  the  scene  which  had  passed  too 
great  for  her  powers,  she  left  the  canon  in  charge  of  Joseph,  and  ran 
to  aid  her  rival,  who  was  suffering  from  a violent  nervous  attack. 
Unable  to  soothe  her,  and  not  daring  to  bring  her  back  to  the  priory, 
she  sought  to  keep  her  from  falling  and  digging  her  hands  in  the 
ground.  Corilla  was  perfectly  insane  for  some  time,  but  when  she 
recognised  the  person  who  had  come  to  her  assistance,  and  who  wish- 
ed to  soothe  her,  she  became  at  once  quiet  and  her  face  assumed  a 
bluish  pallor.  Her  lips  became  fixed  and  remained  silent,  and  her  icy 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground,  as  if  she  dared  not  lift  them.  -She 
suffered  herself  passively  to  be  taken  to  the  carriage  which  waited  foi 
her,  and  was  assisted  into  it  by  her  rival  without  speaking  a word 
“ You  are  very  ill,”  said  Consuelo,  terrified  at  the  change  of  her  ex 
pression.  “ Let  me  go  with  you  for  some  distance,  I can  easily  return 
on  foot.”  Corilla  said  nothing,  but  repulsed  her  brusquely,  with  as 
expression  it  was  impossible  to  interpret.  Suddenly  sobbing  aloud, 
she  hid  her  face  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  bade  the  coachman 
drive. on,  at  the  same  time  putting  down  the  blind  between  her  and 
her  generous  enemy. 

On  the  next  day,  at  the  last  rehearsal  of  Antigone , Consuelo  was  at 
her  post,  and  waited  for  Corilla  to  begin.  The  latter  sent  her  servant 
to  say  that  she  would  come  in  half  an  hour.  Caffariello  was  loud  in 
his  curses,  and  said  he  was  n<?t  subject  to  the  orders  of  such  a crea- 
ture, at  the  same  time  acting  as  if  he  would  leave  at  once.  Madame 
Tesi,  though  pale  and  ill,  wished  to  witness  this  rehearsal,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  laughing  at  la  Corilla’s  expense.  She  had  caused  a property 
•ofa  to  be  brought  anr!  placed  at  the  O.  P.  entrance,  painted  like  a 
curtain,  gathered  up  in  the  back  in  what  in  French  stage  language  if 
*n own  as  mcmtmu  harlequin . She  soothed  her  friend,  and  insisted 


COflSUELO, 


459 


on  waiting  for  la  Corilla,  fancying  that  she  del  ayed  coming  only  be* 
cause  she  was  unwilling  to  see  her.  At  last  la  Corilla  came,  more 
pale  and  languid  even  than  Madame  Tesi  herself,  who  seemed  to  re- 
rive when  she  saw  her  in  this  condition.  Instead  of  throwing  off  her 
cloak  and  hood  with  the  great  airs  which  she  was  used  to  put  on,  she 
sat  on  the  throne  at  the  back  of  the  stage  and  spoke  thus  to  Holz- 
baiier, “ Mr.  Manager,  I assure  you  that  I am  very  sick,  that  I have 
no  voice,  and  have  passed  a terrible  night — (“With  whom?”  said 
Tesi,  languidly  to  Caffariello.)  I cannot,  therefore,  go  through  to- 
morrow’s rehearsal,  unless  I resume  the  role  of  Ismene,  and  you  give 
that  of  Berenice  to  another  person.” 

“ What,  madam?  ” said  Holzbaiier,  as  if  he. had  been  stricken  down 
*>y  a thunderbolt.  “ Is  it  on  the  eve  of  the  production  of  an  opera, 
when  the  court  has  appointed  the  hour,  you  tell  us  of  such  a mis- 
fortune? Is  it  possible.  I can  consent  to  it  under  no  circum- 
stances  ” 

“ You  must,”  said  she  in  her  natural  voice,  which  was  far  from 
mild.  “ I am  engaged  for  second  parts,  and  there  is  nothing  to  oblige 
me  to  undertake  the  first.  From  kindness  alone  I undertook  to  re- 
place la  Signora  Tesi,  and  also  for  the  purpose  of  preventing  any  in- 
terruptions to  the  pleasures  of  the  court — now  I am  too  ill  to  keep 
my  promise,  and  you  cannot  make  me  sing  unless  I please.” 

“ My  dear,  you  will  be  made  to  sing  by  order.  If  you  sing  badly,  we 
will  be  prepared  for  it.  This  is  a small  misfortune  compared  with 
those  you  have  met  with  during  your  life.  It  is  too  late,  though,  for 
you  to  repent.  You  have  presumed  too  much  on  your  resources. 
You  will  make  a fiasco ; that  is  nothing  to  us.  I will  sing  so  that 
people  shall  forget  there  is  such  a personage  as  Berenice — La  Porpo- 
rina  also  as  Ismene  will  reward  the  public,  and  all  but  you  will  be 
satisfied.  This  will  be  a lesson  by  which  you  can  profit,  and  which 
will  never  happen  to  you  again.” 

“You  are  much  mistaken  about  the  reason  why  I refuse,”  said  la 
Corilla.  “ Were  I not  sick  I would  sing  the  part  perhaps  as  well  as 
another.  As,  though,  I cannot,  there  is  one  here  who  will  sing  it  as 
well  as  it  ever  has  been  sung  in  Vienna,  and  she  will  be  able  to  do  it 
*o-morrow.  The  opera  then  will  not  be  postponed,  and  I will  resume 
cheerfully  the  role  of  Ismene,  which  does  not  fatigue  me.” 

“ Do  you  think  that  Madame  Tesi  will  be  well  enough  to-morrow 
to  sing  her  own  part?” 

“ I know  perfectly  well  that  Madame  Tesi  will  not  be  able  to  sing 
for  a long  time,”  said  la  Corilla,  speaking  so  that  the  former  could 
hear  her  voice  distinctly.  “ See  how  she  is  changed ! Her  appear- 
ance is  terrible.  1 said,  though,  you  had  a perfect  Berenice— -one  who 
is  incomparable  and  superior  to  all  others.  Here  she  is,”  said  she, 
rising  and  placing  her  hand  in  Consuelo’s  for  the  purpose  of  drawing 
her  amid  the  agitated  group  which  stood  around  herself. 

“ Do  you  mean  me  ? ” said  Consuelo,  who  fancied  that  she 
dreamed. 

“ I mean  you,”  said  Corilla,  forcing  her  convulsively  to  the  throne 
— * 14  Now,  Porporina,  you  are  queen.  You  have  the  highest  rank.  I 
placed  you  in  that  position,  for  I owed  you  that  atonement.  Do  not 
forget  it.” 

In  his  distress,  Holzbaiier,  on  the  very  eve  of  failing,  and  being 
forced  to  resign,  cculd  not  refuse  the  aid  which  was  tendered  him. 
fiwa  the  manner  in  .which  Consuelo  sang  Ismene,  he  saw  clearl| 


CON  S U E I O. 


^^460 

enough  that  she  could  sing  Berenice  in  a most  superior  maimer.  In 
spite  of  his  dislike  to  her  and  Porpora,  he  now  had  but  one  apprehen- 
sion, that  she  would  not  play  the  part. 

She  seriously  protested  that  she  would  not,  and  cordially  clasping 
Corilla’s  hands,  besought  her  not  to  make  a sacrifice  which  did  her- 
self so  little  good,  at  the  same  time  that,  to  her  rival,  it  was  the  most 
terrible  expiation  and  the  most  abject  atonement  which  could  be  im- 
posed on  her.  Corilla  was  fixed  in  her  determination.  Madame 
Tesi,  terrified  at  the  danger  which  menaced  her,  was  anxious  to  try 
her  voice,  and  resume  her  role , even  if  she  died  immediately  after,  for 
she  was  really  ill ; she  did  not,  though,  dare  to  do  so.  At  an  imperial 
theatre  of  those  days,  artistes  could  not  be  so  capricious  as  the  good- 
humored  sovereign  of  our  times,  the  public , permits  them  to  indulge 
in.  The  court  expected  to  see  a new  Berenice:  it  had  been  an- 
nounced, and  the  empress  relied  on  it. 

“Come,”  said  Caffariello  to  Consuelo,  “make  up  your  mind  at 
once.” 

On  this  occasion,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Consuelo  showed 
that  which  had  been  all  through  her  life  la  Corilla’s  characteristic. 
Let  us  record  it. 

“ I do  not  know  the  part — I never  studied  it,”  said  Consuelo.  ¥ I 
will  not  be  able  to  learn  it  by  to-morrow.” 

“You  have  heard  it  You  know  it,  therefore,”  said  Porpora,  in  a 
voice  of  thunder,  “ yoh  will  sing  it  to-morrow.  Come,  no  more  grim- 
aces, and  let  all  this  pretence  end. — Mr.  Director  let  the  violins  strike 
up. — You,  Berenice,  take  your  place;  no  sheet  of.  music  when  a role 
has  been  read  thrice — it  should  be  known  by  heart — I say  you  know 
it” 

“ No,  tutto,  O Berenice,” 

Sang  Corilla,  resuming  the  role  of  Ismene, — 

•‘To  non  apri  11  tuo  cor.” 

u And  now,”  thought  Corilla,  who  estimated  Consuelo’s  pride  by 
her  own,  “ all  she  knows  of  me  will  seem  trivial . ” 

Consuelo,  whose  prodigious  memory  and  power  of  acquisition,  Por- 
pora was  well  acquainted  with,  sang  her  rolef  music  and  words,  with- 
out any  hesitation.  Madame  Tesi  was  so  much  amazed  at  her  words 
and  play  that  she  became  much  worse,  and  went  home  before  the  re- 
hearsal of  the  second  act  On  the  next  day  Consuelo  had  prepared 
her  dress,  and  the  little  points  of  her  part,  and  gone  over  all  the  music, 
with  attention,  by  five  o’clock.  Her  success  was  complete,  and  the  em- 
press said,  as  she  left  the  theatre,  “ That  is  an  admirable  young  girl, 
and  I must  find  her  a husband ; I will  think  of  it.” 

On  the  next  day,  she  began  to  rehearse  the  Zenobia  of  Metastasio, 
with  words  by  Predieri,  Corilla  yet  insisted  on  her  taking  the  first 
part,  and  on  this  occasion  Madame  Holzbaiier  took  the  second.  As 
she  was  a better  artist  than  Corilla,  this  opera  was  much  better  stud- 
ied than  the  other. 

Metastasio  was  delighted  to  see  that  his  poetry,  which  during  the 
wars  had  been  neglected,  returning  into  favor  at  court,  and  becoming 
the  rage  in  Vienna.  He  no  longer  thought  of  his  wrongs;  ana 
pressed  by  the  kindness  of  the  empress  and  the  duty  of  his  office  to 
wdte  new  operatic  dramas,  he  prepared  himseif  by  the  study  of  the 
<^eek  and  Latin  classics,  to  produce  one  of  those  ehef  <r  mwm$ 


CONSUELft 


461 


which  the  Italians  of  Vienna  and  the  Germans  ef  Italy  p laced  boldly, 
and  at  once,  above  the  tragedies  of  Corneille,  Racine,  Shakspeare, 
Calderon,  and  every  one  else,  to  have  the  pleasure  of  telling  him  so 
to  his  face,  without  blushing  at  it. 

Not  in  this  part  of  the  book,  which  has  already  become  too  long 
and  discursive,  will  we  exhaust  yet  more  the  readers  patience,  wh'ch 
ere  now  has  been  perhaps  worn  out,  by  telling  him  what  we  think  of 
Metastasio.  We  will  only  repeat  what  Consuelo  whispered  to  Joseph. 

“ My  dear  Beppo,  you  cannot  conceive  how  difficult  it  is  to  play 
those  roles , said  to  be  so  sublime  and  pathetic.  True,  the  words  are 
well  arranged,  and  flow  easily  from  the  tongue  in  singing,  but  when 
one  thinks  of  the  personage,  I do  not  see  where  not  only  emotion  but 
a serious  face  is  to  be  found  in  pronouncing  them.  What  a strange 
fancy  then  it  is  to  make  antiquity  act  according  to  the  sentiment  of 
to-day,  and  represent  intrigues,  passions,  and  moral  thoughts,  which 
perhaps  in  the  memoirs  of  Baron  Trenck,  the  Margrave  of  Bareith, 
and  the  Princess  of  Culmbach,  would  not  be  out  of  place,  but  which 
are  nonsense  in  the  lips  of  Berenice,  and  Arsinoe.  When  I was  get- 
ting well  at  the  Giants’  Castle,  Count  Albert  used  often  to  read  me  to 
sleep,  as  he  thought.  I did  not  sleep,  though,  but  heard  every  word. 
He  read  to  me  the  Greek  tragedies  of  Eschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Eu- 
ripides slowly,  but  with  distinctness  and  without  hesitation,  having 
the  Greek  text  before  him.  He  understood  the  ancient  and  modern 
tongues  so  thoroughly  that  it  seemed  an  admirably  well  made  trans- 
lation. He  made  it  extremely  faithful,  he  said,  because  he  wished  me 
to’ see,  in  the  scrupulous  exactness  of  his  rendering,  the  extreme  sim- 
plicity of  the  Greek  genius.  My  God ! what  grandeur,  and  what  im- 
ages, what  poetry,  and  soberness  of  diction ! what  pure  and  strong 
characters!  what  energetic  situations!  what  deep  and  true  agony! 
what  lacerating  and  terrible  scenes  he  displayed  to  me ! I was  yet 
feeble,  and  with  my  imagination  still  under  the  influence  of  the  vio- 
lent excitement  which  had  produced  my  attack,  I was  overpowered 
by  what  I heard,  and  fancied  myself,  as  I heard  Antigone,  Clytemnes- 
tra,  Medea  or  Alectra,  and  that  really  and  personally,  I figured  in 
those  bloody  dreams — not  in  the  theatre  looking  at  the  foot-lights— 
but  in  the  terrible  solitude,  amid  gaping  caverns,  neath  the  columns 
of  antique  temples,  or  by  the  dreary  hearth  where  the  dead  were 
wept  for  while  vengeance  was  plotted  against  the  living.  I heard  the 
gad  chorus  of  the  Trojan  women,  and  of  the  Dardan  captives.  The 
Eumenides  danced  around  me  to  what  strange  rhythm  and  to  what 
infernal  modulation.  I cannot  now  think  of  it  without  a recollection 
of  pleasure  and  terror,  which  makes  me  yet  tremble.  I shall  never 
have  on  the  stage,  in  the  realization  of  my  dreams,  the  same  emo- 
tions and  power  which  at  that  time  filled  both  my  heart  and  head. 
Then  I became  aware  that  I was  a tragedienne,  forming  conceptions  of 
which  no  actress  had  furnished  me  a model.  Then  I comprehended 
the  drama,  tragic  effect,  and  theatrical  poetry.  As  Albert  read,  I 
improvised  in  my  own  mind  a chant  in  which  I followed  all  I heard. 
I sometimes  caught  myself  in  the  attitude  and  with  the  physiognomy 
of  the  persons  who  spoke ; and  he  often  paused  with  terror  fancying 
that  an  Andromache  or  Ariadne  lay  before  him.  Ah, — I learned  and 
acquired  more  in  the  course  of  one  month  than  I shall  in  a lifetime 
of  Metastasio’s  dramas.  If  the  composers  had  not  inspired  the  music 
with  the  sentiment  and  truth  which  is  so  deficient  in  the  plot,  I fancy 
I would  die  of  disgust  at  the  Grand-Duchess  Zenobia,  speaking  with 


462 


C0N8UBL), 


the  Landgrave  Egle,  and  hearing  Field-Marshal  Bbadaroistus  dlnph, 
ing  with  Zopyrus,  a Cornet  of  Pandours.  Oh ! all  this  is  false,  false  as 
possible,  my  poor  Beppo ; false  as  jur  costumes  are,  false  as  the  pow- 
dered wig  of  Caffariello  Tiridates,  as  a Pompadour  undress  of  Madame 
Holzbaiier  in  an  Armenian  pastoral ; like  the  rose-colored  stockings 
of  Prince  Demetrius : and  these  scenes  which  look  as  much  like  Asia 
as  Metastasio  is  like  Homer.” 

“ What  you  say,”  said  Haydn,  “ explains  to  me  why,  when  I write 
operas  for  the  stage,  if  I ever  reach  such  a climax,  I feel  less  inspira 
tion  than  when  I write  oratories.  There  the  puerile  artifices  of  the 
stage  never  contradict  the  truth  of  sentiment,  in  that  symphonic  cii 
cle  where  sentiment  is  everything  and  all  is  music — where  the  soul  is 
uttered  to  the  ear  and  not  to  the  eye — it  seems  tp  me  that  the  com- 
poser may  expound  all  revealed  to  him,  and  lead  the  hearer  into  re- 
gions truly  exalted.” 

As  she  spoke  thus,  Joseph  and  Consuelo  were  waiting  for  the  com* 
pany  to  come  to  rehearsal,  and  were  walking  up  and  down  the  long 
back  scene,  which  at  night  was  to  represent  the  river  Araxes,  but 
which  by  day-light  seemed  only  a vast  band  of  indigo,  with  here  and 
there  a spot  of  oohre,  to  represent  the  mountains  of  Caucasus.  Every 
one  knows  that  these  back  scenes  are  placed  the  one  in  front  of  the 
other,  so  as  to  be  rolled  up  on  a cylinder,  whenever  the  scene  changes. 
In  the  interval  which  separates  them  from  each  other,  the  actors 
during  the  rehearsal  walk  to  and  fro;  scene-shifters  lie  down  and  ex- 
change snuff-boxes,  while  the  oil  from  badly  secured  lamps  falls  on 
them.  During  the  day,  the  actors  walk  up  and  down  these  dark  pas- 
sages, repeating  the  words  of  their  parts,  or  talking  of  their  business 
matters.  Sometimes  they  hear  little  conversations  not  intended  for 
them,  or  ascertain  the  secrets  of  others,  between  whom  and  themselves 
hangs  a whole  gulf,  or  a public  sea. 

Luckily,  Metastasio  was  not  on  the  other  shore  of  the  Araxes, 
while  the  inexperienced  Consuelo  thus  uttered  her  artistic  indignation 
to  Haydn.  The  rehearsal  began.  It  was  the  second  time  Zenobia 
had  been  called,  and  all  passed  off  so  well  that  the  musicians  in  the 
orchestra  applauded,  as  they  are  in  the  habit  of  doing,  by  tapping 
with  their  bows  on  the  tops  of  their  violins.  The  music  of  Predieri 
was  charming,  and  Porpora  conducted  it  with  an  enthusiasm  that  of 
Hasse  could  not  call  forth.  The  character  of  Tiridates  was  one  of 
Caffariello’s  triumphs,  and  he  did  not  complain  that  a dress  had  been 
prepared  like  that  which  would  not  be  out  of  place  in  an  opera,  taken 
from  the  story  of  Celadon,  and  Clytander.  If  Consuelo  thought  her 
role  not  at  all  consonant  with  that  of  her  heroine  of  antiquity,  she 
was  at  least  satisfied  that  it  was  really  feminine.  In  a manner  it  re- 
called to  her  the  situation  in  which  she  had  been  placed  between  Al- 
bert and  Anzoleto.  Completely  oblivious  of  all  the  localities,  and 
thinking  to  represent  merely  human  sentiments,  she  felt  that  in  this 
air  she  was  sublime — 

••  Voi  legete  in  ogni  cor, 

Yoi  sapete,  O I giuati  Dei, 

Se  non  puri,  voti  miei* 

So  innocente  e la  pieta." 

At  that  moment  she  feb  conscious  of  a deserved  triumph  and  of 
true  emotion ; she  needed  only  the  look  of  Caffariello,  who  on  that 
occasion  was  not  restrained  by  the  glance  of  la  Tesi,  and  who  really 

admired  her,  to  confirm  what  she  was  already  sensible  of,  the  certainty 


463 


C O N S V B L O. 

•f  producing  on  every  one,  under  all  possible  conditions,  the  greatest 
effect  with  this  morceau . She  was  thus  reconciled  to  her  part — satis- 
fied with  the  opera,  with  herself,  and,  in  one  word,  with  the  theatre. 
In  spite  of  the  imprecations  she  had  uttered  but  a moment  before,  she 
could  not  resist  one  of  those  sudden  palpitations  which  are  so  pro- 
found, unexpected  and  powerful,  that  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  not 
an  artist  to  understand  what  centuries  of  labor,  deception  and  suffer- 
Vng  can  be  atoned  for  in  an  hour. 


CHAPTER  XCIIL 

As  a pupil  and  half  servant  of  Porpora,  Haydn,  who  was  fond  of 
music,  and  was  anxious  to  study  even  under  a material  point  of  view 
the  consistency  of  operas,  obtained  permission  to  go  behind  the  scenes 
when  Consuelo  sang.  For  a few  days  he  observed  that  Porpora,  who 
bad  at  first  been  ill  disposed  to  admit  him  behind  the  scenes,  author- 
ised him  to  come  even  before  he  ventured  to  ask  leave.  Something 
new  had  suggested  itself  to  the  maestro.  Maria  Theresa,  while  speak- 
ing of  music  to  the  Venetian  ambassador,  had  returned  to  her  fixed 
matrimo-mania . She  told  him  how  glad  she  would  be  to  see  this 
great  singer  fixed  at  Vienna  as  the  wife  of  her  teacher’s  pupil,  Haydn. 
She  asked  the  ambassador  about  the  latter,  of  whom  he  spoke  highly, 
assuring  her  that  he  had  great  musical  capacities,  and  moreover  that 
he  was  an  excellent  Catholic.  Her  majesty  asked  him  to  bring  about 
the  marriage,  and  promised  to  give  the  young  couple  a household. 
The  idea  seemed  very  suitable  to  Korner,  who  was  fond  of  Joseph,  to 
whom  he  had  already  made  an  allowance  of  sixty-two  francs  a month 
to  enable  him  to  commence  his  musical  studies  without  difficulty. 
This  plan  the  ambassador  urged  on  Porpora,  who,  fearing  that  Con- 
suelo would  persist  in  her  idea  of  marrying  a gentleman  and  leaving 
the  stage,  after  much  hesitation  and  resistance,  (he  wished  his  pupii 
to  remain  unloving  and  unmarried,)  was  at  last  persuaded.  To  make 
a decided  impression,  the  ambassador  had  determined  to  show  him 
Haydn’s  compositions,  and  to  tell  him  that  the  trio-serenade  he  ex- 
pressed such  a high  opinion  of,  was  by  Beppo.  Porpora  had  confessed 
that  Haydn  had  the  germ  of  great  capacity,  that  he  could  give  it  a good 
direction,  and  aid  him  to  write  for  the  voice;  in  fine,  that  a singer 
married  to  a composer  might  be  extremely  lucky.  The  youth  of  the 
pair,  and  their  small  means,  made  industry  a matter  of  necessity,  and 
Consuelo  would  thus  be  bound  to  the  theatre.  The  maestro  yielded. 
He,  like  Consuelo,  had  received  no  reply  from  Riesenburg.  This  si- 
lence made  him  apprehend  some  resistance  to  his  plans,  some  scheme 
of  the  young  count.  “ If  I can  marry,”  said  he,  “ or  at  least  promise 
Consuelo  to  another,  I shall  have  nothing  to  fear  in  that  quarter.” 

The  difficulty  lay  in  inducing  Consuelo  to  consent.  Persuasion 
would  have  the  effect  of  inducing  her  to  resist.  With  his  Neapolitan 
wit,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  force  of  circumstances  must 
Dring  about  a change  in  her  mind.  She  liked  Beppo ; and  though  ha 
had  subdued  his  passion  for  her,  he  exhibited  too  much  zeal  and  de- 
votion for  Porpora,  to  imagine  that  he  was  not  deeply  in  love.  Ha 
ftooght  that  by  not  interfering  with  their  association,  he  would  ghre 


464 


0OKS?71LO< 


him  the  means  of  inducing  her  to  accede  to  his  wishes.  That  bj  gra& 
ually  informing  him  of  the  empress’s  wishes  and  of  his  own  consent, 
he  would  inspire  him  with  courage,  eloquence,  and  persuasion.  He 
therefore  ceased  at  once  his  tyranny  and  brutality,  and  gave  a free 
rent  to  the  expansion  of  their  fraternal  devotion,  flattering  himself 
that  things  would  come  right  more  certainly  than  if  he  interfered  di- 
ectly  with  them. 

Porpora,  in  not  entertaining  any  doubt  of  success,  committed  a 
great  error.  He  exposed  Consuelo’s  fair  fame  to  slander;  for  it  was 
only  necessary  for  Joseph  to  be  seen  behind  the  scenes  twice  with  her, 
to  dispose  all  the  people  of  the  theatre  to  proclaim  far  and  wide  the 
existence  of  an  amour.  Poor  Consuelo,  confiding  and  unsuspicious, 
as  chaste,  pure  hearts  ever  are,  had  no  suspicion  of  the  danger,  and 
therefore  could  take  no  precaution  against  it.  Therefore  on  the  day 
after  this  rehearsal  of  Zenobia,  eyes  were  on  the  watch  and  tongues 
were  busy  at  every  entrance ; behind  every  scene,  there  was  between 
the  actors,  chorus,  and  employees  of  all  degrees,  a malignant  or  kind 
observation,  fault-finding  or  benevolent,  about  the  scandal  of  this  in' 
fcrigue,  or  the  open  avowal  of  the  mqtual  understanding. 

Consuelo,  fully  occupied  by  her  part,  thinking  only  of  her  part  and 
artistic  emotions,  heard  and  foresaw  nothing.  Haydn,  who  was  a 
dreamer,  and  was  always  enwrapped  by  the  opera  being  sung,  and  the 
one  he  meditated  in  his  musical  mind,  heard  here  and  there  some  re- 
marks which  he  did  not  understand,  so  far  was  he  from  flattering  any 
vain  hope.  When,  as  he  passed,  he  heard  any  equivocal  remark,  any 
piquant  observation,  he  looked  up,  cast  his  eyes  around  him,  glanced 
at  the  victim  of  this  satire,  and  if  he  did  not  see  her,  resumed  his 
contemplation. 

Between  each  act  of  the  opera  there  was  a buffa  interlude : on  this 
occasion  was  to  be  performed  V Impressario  delle  Canariey  a collec- 
tion of  gay  and  very  amusing  scenes,  by  Metastasio.  La  Corilla,  who 
played  the  part  of  a whimsical,  perverse  and  absolute  prima-donna, 
was  perfect;  and  her  success  in  this  trifle  consoled  her  for  the  sacri- 
fice of  the  great  part  of  Zenobia.  During  the  rehearsal  of  this  piece, 
and  while  waiting  for  the  third  act  to  be  called,  Consuelo,  who  was 
somewhat  worried  by  her  part,  went  behind  the  back  scene,  between 
the  horrible  valley,  overhung  by  mountains  and  precipices,  which  was 
the  first  decoration,  and  the  good  river  Araxes,  on  the  banks  of  which 
were  the  most  beautiful  hills , which  were  to  appear  in  the  third  set  to 
delight  the  sensible  spectator.  She  walked  to  and  fro  rather  rapidly, 
when  Joseph  brought  her  fan,  which  she  had  left  on  the  prompter’s 
table,  and  which  she  used  with  much  satisfaction.  The  instinct  of 
his  heart,  and  the  intentional  pre-occup.ation  of  Porpora,  led  Joseph 
mechanically  to  his  friend’s  side ; and  from  their  habit  of  confidence 
and  want  of  reserve,  Consuelo  received  him  joyously.  In  this  double 
sympathy,  at  which  not  even  the  angels  in  heaven  would  have  blushed, 
destiny  resolved  to  find  the  commencement  of  strange  misfortunes. 
We  are  well  satisfied  that  women  who  read  romances,  and  who  art 
always  anxious  to  come  to  the  end,  wilL  at  once  be  eager  to  know 
what.  We  must  beg  them,  though,  to  be  patient. 

“ Well,  my  friend,”  said  Joseph,  smiling,  and  offering  Consuelo  hi* 
hand,  “it  seems  to  me  you  are  no  longer  so  dissatisfied  with  the  drama 
of  our  illustrious  abbe,  and  that  you  found  your ‘prayer ’—an  open 
window,  through  which  the  demon  of  your  genius  will  henceforth 
contrive  to  soar.” 


CONSUIL0W 


m 


*Then  you  think  I sung  well?  ” 

• Do  you  not  see  my  eyes  are  red  ? ” 

* Ton  wept,  yes.  That  is  well ; I am  satisfied  with  hayjsg  made 
von  do  80.” 

a As  if  it  were  the  first  time.  You  are  an  artist,  though,  Consuelo, 
M Porpora  wishes.  The  fire  of  success  is  enkindled  in  you.  When 
you  sang  in  the  depths  of  the  Boehmer-wald,  you  saw  me  weep,  and 
did  so  too,  to  keep  me  company,  touched  by  the  very  beauty  of  your 
own  song.  Now  all  is  changed,  and  you  quiver  with  pleasure  at  my 
tears.  Courage,  Consuelo,  you  are  now  a prima-donna,  in  the  fullest 
sense  of  the  term.” 

" Do  not  say  so  my  beloved.  I shall  never  be  like  her.”  As  she 
•poke,  she  pointed  vo  Corilla,  who  was  then  singing  on  the  stage,  just 
in  front  of  the  back  scene. 

“ Do  not  be  angry ; I mean  to  say  that  the  god  of  inspiration  has 
conquered  you.  It  is  in  vain  that  your  cold  reason,  your  austere 
philosophy,  and  your  memory  of  Kiesenburg  have  contended  against 
the  spirit  of  Python.  He  now  occupies  and  overwhelms  you.  Con- 
fess that  you  are  overcome  with  pleasure.  I feel  your  arm  tremble  in 
mine,  your  face  is  animated,  and  I never  before  saw  you  look  as  you 
do  now.  No,  you  were  not  more  agitated  or  inspired  when  Count 
Albert  read  you  the  Greek  tragedies.” 

“ What  a wrong  you  do  me,”  said  Consuelo,  growing  pale,  and  at 
the  same  time  withdrawing  her  arm  from  Joseph’s.  “ Why  do  you 
utter  that  name  here  ? It  is  holy,  and  should  not  be  breathed  in  this 
temple  of  folly.  It  is  a terrible  name,  which,  like  a thunderbolt,  dis- 
pels at  night  all  the  illusions  and  phantoms  of  golden  dreams.” 
u Well,  Consuelo,  do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  the  truth?”  Haydn 
after  a moment’s  hesitation  said.  “ You  can  never  make  up  your  mind 
to  marry  that  man.” 

“ Hush,  hush!  I promised  to  do  so.” 

“ Well,  if  you  keep  your  promise  you  can  never  be  happy  with  him. 
You  leave  the  theatre?  give  up  your  artist  life?  It  is  tool  ta.  You 
have  tasted  a pleasure,  the  absence  of  which  would  torme  your  ex- 
istence.” 

“ I am  afraid  of  you,  feeppo.  Why  say  such  things  to-day?  ” 

“ I do  not  know ; and  I speak  almost  under  compulsion,  as  it  were : 
•I  think  when  we  go  home  I will  write  something  sublime.  What  I 
will  write  will  perhaps  be  very  commonplace,  but  for  a quarter  of  an 
hour  I will  be  full  of  genius.” 

“ How  gay,  how  tranquil  you  are,  while  I,  amid  this  fever  of  pride 
and  glory  of  which  you  speak,  experience  bitter  grief,  and  wish  at  the 
same  time  to  laugh  and  cry.” 

“You  suffer — I am  sure  you  must.  At  the  very  time  you  feel  year 
power  ready  to  burst  forth,  a sad  thought  seizes  and  chills  you.” 

“Yes  it  is  the  case — and  why  ? ” 

“ It  means  that  you  are  an  artist,  and  that  you  have  made  a duty, 
an  obligation  abominable  in  the  eyes  of  God,  and  hateful  to  yourself 
— I mean  the  renunciation  of  art.” 

“ It  seemed  yesterday  not  to  be  so,  but  to-day  it  does.  The  reason 
is,  that  m^  nerves. are  out  of  order,  and  that  agitation  has  always  a 
bad  effect  on  me.  I always  dreamed  that  they  controlled  or  influenced 
sne.  I had  always  gone  on  the  stage  with  calmness  and  with  careful 
and  modest  attention.  To-day  all  is  changed,  and  were  I now  to  go 
m the  stage  it  seems  to  me  I would  ccmmit  some  sublime  folly  or  as* 


46ft 


c o n s u t r,  o. 


/ 


travagance  The  reins  of  my  will  escape  from  my  control.  To-mofl* 
row  I trust  this  will  not  be  the  case,  for  my  emotion  appr  jximatea 
nearly  to  delirium  and  agony.” 

“ My  poor  friend,  I fear  this  will  always  be  the  case,  or  rather  I 
hope  so,  for  your  power  exists  in  this  emotion  alone.  I have  heard 
from  every  musician  and  actor  I ever  met,  that  but  for  this  delirium 
or  trouble  they  were  powerless,  and  that  instead  of  being  calmed  by 
age,  they  always  became  more  impassionable  to  every  embrace  of 
their  demon.” 

“ This  is  a great  mystery,”  said  Consuelo,  with  a sigh.  “ It  seems 
to  me  that  the  vanity  and  jealousy  of  others,  the  base  craving  for  suc- 
cess, cannot  to-morrow  so  completely  change  my  being.  No;  I 
assure  you,  when’singing  Zenobia’s  prayer,  and  the  duo  with  Tiridates, 
the  passion  and  power  of  Caffariello  bore  me  along  on  the  wings  of  a 
tempest  as  it  were.  I did  not  think  of  the  public,  nor  of  my  rivals, 
not  even  of  myself.  I was  Zenobia;  I thought  of  the  immortal  gods 
of  Olympus  with  a truly  Christian  fervor,  and  was  filled  with  love  for 
good  Caffariello,  whom,  after  the  ritornella,  I could  not  look  at  with- 
out a smile.  All  this  is  strange,  and  I begin  to  think  the  dramatic 
art  is  a perpetual  lie,  and  that  God  punishes  us  by  madness,  making 
us  really  believe  what  we  seek  to  impose  on  others  with.  No,  it  is 
not  permitted  to  man  to  abuse  all  the  passions  and  emotions  of  real 
life,  and  make  a sport  of  them.  He  wishes  us  to  keep  our  souls  pure 
and  holy  for  true  affections.  When  we  violate  this  wish  He  strikes 
and  punishes  us.” 

“ God— God — the  will  of  God ; yes,  Consuelo,  there  is  the  mystery ; 
who  can  penetrate  His  designs  in  relation  to  us?  Would  he  give  us 
from  our  very  cradle  those  instincts  of  art,  which  no  passion  can  sti- 
fle, if  he  forbade  the  use  we  are  called  to  make  of  them  ? Why,  in  my 
very  childhood,  did  I dislike  the  sports  of  my  companions  ? Why,  as 
soon  as  I became  my  own  master,  did  I study  music  with  a diligence 
from  which  nothing  could  divert  me,  and  an  assiduity  which  would 
have  killed  any  other  child  of  my  age  ? Rest  was  wearying  to  me, 
and  from  toil  I obtained  energy.  So,  too,  was  it  with  you,  Consuelo. 
You  have  told  me  a hundred  times,  when  we  listened  to  each  other’s 
story,  that  we  might  almost  fancy  we  heard  our  own.  So  the  hand  oi 
God  is  in  everything,  and  all  power,  all  inclination,  is  His  work,  even 
when  we  do  not  see  the  object.  You  are  born  artistic,  and  you  must 
follow  the  behest  of  your  organization.  Whoever  interferes  with  it 
will  inflict  on  you  a more  terrible  death  than  that  of  the  tomb.” 
u Beppo,”  said  Consuelo,  terrified  and  almost  unconscious,  “ if  you 
were  really  my  friend  I know  what  you  would  do.” 
u What,  dear  Consuelo  ? Is  not  my  very  life  yours  ? ” 

“ You  would  kill  me  to-morrow,  when  the  curtain  fell,  when  I was 
become  truly  an  artist,  really  inspired,  for  the  first  and  last  time.” 
*Ah!  ” said  Joseph,  with  a sad  gayety,  I had  rather  kill  Count  Al- 
bert or  myself.” 

At  that  time  Consuelo  turned  toward  the  wing,  which  opened  di- 
rectly in  front  of  her,  and  looked  at  it  with  an  expression  of  most 
melancholy  thought. 

The  interior  of  a large  theatre  by  daylight  presents  so  different  an 
appearance  from  that  it  wears  when  seen  from  the  front,  and  by  night, 
that  it  is  impossible  for  one  who  has  not  seen  it  to  form  any  idea  of 
it.  Nothing  is  more  satf.  or  sombre  than  the  dark  hall,  deserted  and 
gflent  Were  any  human  fo  m to  show  itself  diatinafcly  to  the  haxm, 


const?  blo< 


417 

feasad  like  vaults,  It  wou.d  seem  a spectre,  and  make  the  oldest  actoi 
shrink  back.  The  faint  melancholy  light,  which  penetrates  from  the 
windows  in  the  roof  of  the  back  of  the  stage,  glances  across  rude  scaf- 
folding and  dusty  beams  and  planks.  On  the  stage,  stripped  of  all  per* 
■pective,  the  eye  is  amazed  at  the  narrow  space  in  which  so  many 
persons  and  passions  are  represented,  and  where  they  feign  majestic 
motion,  imposing  crowds,  irrepressible  outbreaks  to  the  spectator’s 
eye, hut  which  are  calculated  and  meted  out,  line  by  line,  to  avoid 
confusion  together,  or  contact  with  the  fixtures.  If  the  stage  seems 
narrow  and  contracted,  the  height  of  the  building  destined  to  contain 
all  these  decorations,  and  to  move  all  these  machines,  seems  immense, 
when  separated  from  all  hangings,  festooned  clouds,  the  architectural 
cornices,  and  the  green  bows,  which  occupy  so  much  of  the  space  be- 
fore the  spectator.  In  its  real  disproportion,  this  height  seems  aus- 
tere, and  in  looking  on  the  stage  one  feels  as  if  in  a dudgeon ; in 
looking  upward,  one  feels  as  if  in  some  gothic  church,  either  ruin- 
ed or  unfinished,  for  all  around  is  rough,  shapeless,  fantastic,  and  in- 
coherent. Ladders  in  disorder,  just  where  the  machinist  needs  them, 
thrown  against  others  half  indistinct  amid  the  confusion,  masses  of 
plank,  roughly  sawed,  decorations  turned  wrong  side  out,  without  any 
meaning,  cords  mingled  together,  like  hieroglyphics.  Numberless 
fragments,  pulleys,  wheels,  which  seem  to  belong  to  some  unknown 
instrument  of  torture,  resemble  one  of  the  dreams  which  visit  us 
just  before  we  wake,  in  which,  amid  our  efforts  to  awake,  we  see  the 
most  incomprehensible  things.  All  is  vague  and  floating,  and  every- 
thing seems  out  of  place.  We  see  a man  quietly  at  work  on  a rafter, 
which  seems  supported  by  spiders’  threads,  and  might  almost  seem 
a sailor,  grasping  the  rope  of  a vessel,  or  a gigantic  rat,  gnawing  at 
worm-eaten  planks.  We  hear  words  from  we  know  not  whence. 
They  are  eighty  feet  above,  and  the  whimsical  echoes  filling  all  the 
corners  of  the  strange  dome,  distinct  or  confused,  as  you  pass  to 
right  or  left,  sound  mysterious  indeed.  A terrible  noise  shakes  the 
scaffolding,  and  is  prolonged  with  a distinct  hiss.  Is  the  roof  falling  ? 
Has  one  of  these  frail  balconies  been  shattered  and  thrown  down  ? 
No,  it  is  only  a sleeping  scene-shifter,  or  a cat  in  search  of  a mouse, 
leaping  across  precipices  and  labyrinths  hanging  in  air.  Before  you 
grow  used  to  these  objects  and  these  noises  you  are  afraid.  You  do 
not  know  what  is  the  matter,  and  against  what  apparitions  to  be  pre- 
pared. You  understand  nothing,  and  what  neither  the  senses  nor  the 
mind  comprehends,  what  is  uncertain  and  unknown,  always  alarms 
the  logic  of  the  senses.  The  only  thing  we  can  understand  when  we 
penetrate  for  the  first  time  this  chaos  is,  that  we  are  about  to  witness 
some  wild  revelry  of  a mysterious  alchemy. 

Consuelo,  then,  lost  in  tt  mght,  suffered  her  eyes  to  wander  over 
the  strange  edifice,  and  the  poetry  of  this  disorder  for  the  first  time 
revealed  itself  to  her.  At  each  extremity  of  the  passage  formed  by 
the  two  scenes  was  a dark  passage,  up  and  down  which,  from  time  to 
time,  figures  moved  like  shadows.  Once  she  saw  one  of  these  shad- 
ows pause,  as  if  to  speak  to  her,  and  thought  she  saw  2 gesture  made 
to  attract  her  attention. 

“ Is  that  Porpora?  ” she  asked  Joseph. 

u No,”  said  1.8.  “ Probably  some  one  sent  to  tell  you  the  third  act 
is  about  to  begin.” 

Consuelo  increased  her  pace  and  walked  towards  the  figure,  the 
features  of  which  she  could  not  distinguish.  When,  though,  about 


CONBUBLO, 


(N 

three  paces  from  It,  and  when  about  to  question  it.  the  figure  passed 
rapidly  behind,  down  the  next  wing,  and  went  behind  all  the  scenei 
to  the  back  of  the  stage. 

“That  person  seems  to  have  been  eavesdropping,”  said  Joseph. 

“He  seems  to  have  hidden  himself,”  added  Consuelo  who  had 
noticed  the  haste  with  which  he  avoided  being  seen.  I know  not  why, 
but  I am  afraid.” 

She  went  on  the  stage  and  rehearsed  the  last  act,  towards  the  end 
of  which  she  again  felt  the  enthusiasm  she  had  previously  experienced. 
When  she  wanted  to  put  on  her  cloak  to  leave,  she  was  dazzled  by  a 
sudden  light,  a window  above  having  been  opened,  and  the- sun-light 
falling  immediately  before  her.  The  contrast  of  this  with  the  previous 
darkness,  for  a moment  blinded  her,  and  she  walked  two  or  three  steps 
at  hazard,  and  suddenly  met  in  the  wing  the  same  person  in  the  black 
cloak  who  had  previously  made  her  uneasy.  She  saw  him  confusedly, 
vet  seemed  to  recognise  him.  She  uttered  a cry,  and  rushed  towards 
him ; but  he  had  already  gone,  and  she  could  not  find  him. 

“ What  is  the  matter?  ” said  Joseph, handing  her  her  cloak.  Have 
you  struck  against  any  of  the  scenes  ? Are  you  hurt  ? ” 

“ Ho,”  said  she ; “ but  I have  seen  Count  Albert.” 

“ Count  Albert  here  ? — are  you  sure  ? Is  it  possible  ? 99 

“It  is — it  is  certain,”  said  Consuelo,  leading  him  away.  She  then 
began  to  pass  up  and  down  the  wings,  and  looked  into  every  recess. 
Joseph  assisted  her  in  the  search,  though  he  was  satisfied  she  was 
mistaken,  while  Porpora  called  impatiently  for  her  to  come  home. 
Consuelo  found  no  one  in  the  least  like  Albert,  and  when  she  was 
compelled  to  go  with  the  maestro,  she  saw  all  the  persons  who  had 
been  on  the  stage  pass  before  her,  several  of  whom  wore  cloaks,  not 
unlike  the  one  which  had  attracted  her  attention. 

“ It  matters  not,”  said  she  to  Joseph,  in  a low  tone,  “ but  I saw 
him.” 

“ It  is  an  ocular  delusion,1 99  said  Haydn.  “ Had  Count  Albert  been 
there,  he  would  have  spoken,  and  you  tell  me  that  he  fled  twice  as  you 
approached  him.” 

“I  cannot  say  it  was  really  he;  and  as  you  say,  Joseph,  “It  was  a 
vision,  perhaps.  Oh!  I wish  to  leave  at  once,  to  go  to  Bohemia. 
i am  sure  he  is  in  danger  and  needs  me.” 

“ 1 see  that  among  other  things,  dear  Consuelo,  he  has  communi- 
cated his  madness  to  you.  Regain  your  senses,  I beseech  you,  and  be 
assured  if  Count  Albert  be  in  Vienna,  he  will  come  to  see  you  before 
the  day  pass  over  your  head.” 

This  hope  revived  Consuelo,  and  she  increased  her  pace  with  Beppo, 
leaving  Porpora  behind  her,  not  out  of  humor  at  the  idea  of  Deing 
left  alone  by  her  on  this  occasion.  Consuelo,  though,  thought  neither 
of  Beppo  nor  the  maestro.  She  hurried  home,  and,  all  panting,  ran 
to  her  room,  where  she  found  no  one.  Joseph  afterwards  asked  if 
any  one  had  enquired  for  them  during  their  absence.  The  servants 
answered  that  no  one  had  done  so.  Consuelo  waited  anxiously  all 
day  long,  but  to  no  purpose.  At  evening,  and  up  to  a late  hour  at 
night,  she  carefully  examined  all  who  passed  or  crossed  the  street 
She  seemed,  ever  and  anon,  to  see  some  one  come  to  the  door  and 
pause,  but  these  persons  always  passed  by,  singing  or  coughing,  until 
they  became  lost  in  the  distance.  Consuelo,  satisfied  that  she  had  a 
waking  dream,  went  to  sleep:  and,  on  the  next  day,  the  impression 
being  dissipated,  she  confessed  to  Joseph,  tUat,  in  feet,  she  had  reeog- 


COH8USLO. 


46» 

A aona  of  the  features  of  the  person  in  question.  The  general 
appearance  of  his  form,  the  fashion  and  style  of  the  mantle,  a pale 
free,  and  something  dark  beneath  the  chin,  which  might  be  either  a 
beard  or  the  shadow  of  the  hat,  deeply  defined  in  the  fitful  light  of 
the  theatre,  had  sufficed  to  persuade  her  that  she  saw  Count  Albert. 

u If  such  a man  as  he  whom  you  have  so  often  described  to  me, 
had  been  in  the  theatre,”  said  Joseph,  “there  are  so  many  people 
moving  about  that  his  negligee  air,  his  long  beard,  and  his  black  hair 
would  have  attracted  attention— now,  I have  asked  every  one,  even 
the  door-keepers,  who  admit  no  person  without  knowing  and  receiv- 
ing authority  to  do  so,  and  no  stranger  has  been  seen  to-day.” 

“ Well,  then,  it  is  certain  that  I dreamed— I was  beside  myself.  I 
was  thinking  of  Albert,  and  his  shadow  came.  Some  one  stood 
before  me  whom  I thought  to  be  him.  My  head  has  become  very 
weak.  I am  certain  that  I wept  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  some- 
thing very  extraordinary  has  happened,  and  something  also  absurd.” 
“ Think  no  more  of  it,”  said  Joseph,  “ and  do  not  weary  yourself 
with  fancies.  Go  over  your  part,  and  think  of  that  to-night.” 


CHAPTER  XCIY. 

During  the  day,  Consuelo,  from  her  windows,  saw  a strange 
troupe  defile  towards  the  square.  They  were  rough-looking, 
healthy,  and  robust  men,  with  long  moustaches,  and  straps  of 
leather  bound  round  their  bare  legs,  like  the  old  buskins;  they  had 
on  their  heads  pointed  hats,  and  in  their  belts  four  pistols.  Their 
arms  were  bare  to  the  elbows,  and  in  their  hand  was  a long  Alba- 
nian carbine.  Over  all  this  was  a long  red  cloak. 

“ Is  this  a masquerade  ? ” asked  Consuelo  of  the  canon,  who  had 
come  to  visit  her;  “ we  are  not  in  the  carnival,  I think.” 

“Look  at  these  men,”  said  the  canon,  “for  it  will  be  long  before 
we  see  them  again,  if  God  wills  to  perpetuate  Maria  Theresa’s  reign. 
See  with  what  curiosity  the  people  look  at  them,  though ; in  their 
faces  you  may  see  something  of  disgust  and  terror.  Vienna,  in  its 
days  of  anguish  and  distress,  has  received  them  more  kindly  than  she 
does  now.” 

“ Are  these  Sclavonian  brigands,  of  whom  we  heard  so  much  in 
Bohemia,  where  they  have  done  so  much  mischief?  ” 

“Yes;  they  are  the  fragments  of  the  famous  Croatian  bandits, 
whom  the  celebrated  cousin  Francis  of  your  friend  Frederick  Von 
Trenck,  made  free,  and  reduced  to  the  most  absolute  subjection,  so  as 
to  make  them  almost  regular  troops  in  Maria  Theresa’s  service. 
Look  I there  is  that  terrible  hero,  Trenck,  with  the  burnt  neck,  as  our 
soldiers  call  him : this  famous  partisan,  the  shrewdest,  coldest,  the 
most  useful  of  the  warlike  years  which  have  passed  by,  the  greatest 
boaster  and  robber  of  his  age,  beyond  doubt,  but  also  the  most  robust, 
the  most  active,  and  fabulously  brave  of  modern  days.  That  is 
Trenck,  the  Pandour,  the  savage  chief  of  a band  as  savage  as  him- 
self” 

Francis  Von  Trenck  was  even  taller  than  his  cousin  Frederick.  He 
Was  six  feet  high,  and  his  scarlet  cloak,  fastened  to  his  neck  by  a ruby 


brooch,  covered  a whole  museum  of  Turkish  artillery,  set  with  geoMt 
of  Which  his  belt  was  the  arsenal.  Pistols,  crooked  sabres,  and  cub 
lasses,  nothing  was  wanting  to  give  him  the  air  of  a most  skllfiil 
stager.  As  a cap  ornament  he  wore  a little  scythe  of  gold,  four  blades 
of  which  overhung  his  brow.  His  aspect  was  horrible ; the  explosion 
of  a barrel  of  gunpowder  had  disfigured  and  given  him  a diabolical 
aspect.  One  could  hot  look  at  him  without  a shudder,  said  all  the 
memoirs  of  the  day. 

••  That  then  is  the  monster,  the  enemy  of  humanity,”  said  Consuelo, 
looking  back  with  horror.  “ Bohemia  will  long  recall  his  march  - 
cities  burned  and  sacked,  old  women  cut  to  pieces,  and  women  out- 
raged. The  fields  exhausted  by  contributions,  harvests  ruined,  flocks 
destroyed,  when  they  could  not  be  driven  off — ruin,  desolation,  fire 
and  waste  everywhere.  Poor  Bohemia!  ever  the  rendezvous  of  bat- 
tle, theatre  of  every  tragedy ! ” 

“Yes;  poor  Bohemia!  victim  of  all  fury,  arena  of  all  contests,”  said 
the  canon,  resuming  the  conversation,  “ Francis  Yon  Trenck  has  re- 
newed the  sad  excesses  of  John  Ziska.  Unconuuered,  like  him.  he 
gave  no  quarter,  and  the  terror  of  his  name  was  so  great  that  his 
advance-guard  has  often  taken  places  while  his  main  body  was 
fighting  four  miles  off.  Of  him  may  be  said  as  of  Attila,  * that  the 
grass  never  grew  where  his  horse’s  hoof  had  stood/  The  con- 
quered will  curse  him  to  the  fourth  generation/’ 

The  Pandour  leader  was  soon  lost  in  the  distance;  but  Consuelo 
and  the  cannon  continued  to  see  defile  before  him  his  magnificently 
caparisoned  horses  which  his  gigantic  Croat  Hussars  led  by  the 
bridle. 

“ What  you  see  is,  as  it  were  but  a spangle  of  his  wealth.  Mules 
and  wagons,  loaded  with  arms,  pictures,  gems,  ingots  of  gold  and  silver, 
are  perpetually  seen  on  the  roads  to  his  estates  in  Sclavonia.  There  he 
keeps  that  treasury  which  could  pay  a king’s  ransom  thrice.  He  dines 
from  the  gold  service  he  took  from  the  King  of  Prussia,  at  Soran,  where 
the  king  himself  was  so  near  being  taken.  Some  say  he  was  but  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  too  late;  others  that  he  really  took  him,  and 
made  him  pay  a high  price  for  his  liberty.  Be  patient.  The  Pandour 
Trenck  perhaps  will  not  long  enjoy  his  riches  and  glory.  It  is  said 
that  a criminal  trial  awaits  him,  and  the  most  terrible  accusations 
have  been  brought  against  him,  and  that  the  empress  has  a great 
dread  of  him.  They  say  those  of  the  Croats  who  have  not  taken 
their  own  discharge,  are  about  to  be  incorporated  in  the  imperial 
army  and  governed  in  the  Prussian  fashion.  As  for  him,  I have  no 
great  idea  of  the  recompenses  and  rewards  which  await  him  at 
court.” 

“ They  have,  it  is  said,  saved  the  imperial  crown.” 

“ That  is  true.  From  the  frontiers  of  Turkey  to  that  of  France 
they  have  spread  terror,  and  captured  the  best  defended  places,  and 
have  conquered  in  the  most  desperate  battles.  Always  the  first  to 
attack  the  front  of  an  army,  the  head  of  a bridge,  or  the  breach  of  a 
fort,  they  have  won  the  admiration  of  our  greatest  generals  and 
have  forced  our  enemies  to  flight.  The  French  everywhere  gave  way 
before  them,  and  Frederick  tne  Great  grew  pale,  they  say,  like  a com- 
mon man,  at  their  war-cry.  No  river  was  too  rapid,  no  forest  too 
dense,  no  marsh  too  deep,  no  rock  too  rugged,  no  torrents,  or  falls,  or 
fire,  could  be  found  which  they  did  not  dare  at  all  hours  of  the  night* 
and  at  all  seasons*  Yes  certainly  they  have  saved  the  crown  of 


CONSUEIO.  47t 

Maria  Theresa,  far  m>  re  than  tlie  old  military  tactics  of  all  oar  gan*> 
rals  and  the  ruse  of  our  diplomats.” 

“ If  that  be  so,  their  crimes  will  be  unpunished  and  their  thefts 
sanctified.”  «*' 

“ It  may  be  they  will  be  too  severely  punished.” 

“ One  never  casts  aside  persons  who  have  performed  such  services.” 
“ Excuse  me,”  said  the  canon  Maliciously.  “ When  they  are  no 
longer  needed.” 

“ But  was  not  every  excess  which  they  committed  in  the  empire  and 
the  territories  of  the  allies  overlooked  ? ” . 

“ Certainly.  When  they  were  necessary,  they  were  forgiven.” 

“ And  now  ? ” 

“When  outrage  is  not  necessary,  they  reproach  themselves  with 
having  permitted  it.” 

“ And  the  great  heart  of  Maria  Theresa?  * 

“ They  have  profaned  the  churches.” 

“ I see.  Trenck  is  lost,  canon.” 

“ Hush ! That  should  not  be  said  except  In  a whisper.” 

“Have  you  seen  the  Pandours?”  said  Joseph,  coming  Into  the 
room  quite  pale. 

“ Yes,  with  little  pleasure.” 

“ Well,  did  you  not  recognise  them  ? ” 

“ It  is  the  first  time  I ever  saw  them.  How  should  I know  them? n 
“ No,  it  is  not  the  first  time,  Consuelo.  We  saw  them  in  the  B8eh- 
mer-wald” 

“ Not  to  my  knowledge.” 

“ You  have  then  forgot  a hut  where  we  passed  a night,  and  where 
we  saw  ten  or  twelve  men  sleeping  around  us.” 

Consuelo  remembered  the  hut,  and  having  met  these  savage-look- 
ing persons,  whom  she,  as  well  as  Joseph,  took  for  smugglers.  Other 
emotions  in  which  she  had  not  participated,  engraved  on  Joseph’s 
memory  all  the  circumstances  of  this  stormy  night.  “ Well,”  said  he, 
“ those  smugglers  who  were  not  aware  of  our  presence  by  their  side, 
and  who  left  in  the  morning  with  sacks  and  heavy  bags,  were  Pan- 
dours. They  had  the  arms,  figures,  moustaches,  and  cloaks  which 
have  just  passed;  and  Providence,  when  he  knew  it  nonprotected 
us  from  the  worst  enemies  we  could  possibly  meet  during  all  our 
travels.” 

“ Certainly,”  said  the  canon,  to  whom  Joseph  had  often  detailed  all 
the  incidents  of  their  journey.  “ These  honest  fellows  had  given 
themselves  a leave  of  absence,  as  they  are  wont  to  do  when  their 
pockets  are  full ; and  they  come  to  the  frontier  to  return  home  by  a 
long  circuit,  rather  than  travel  through  the  empire  with  their  booty, 
for  they  run  some  risk  of  being  called  on  to  account  for  it.  Be  as- 
sured, however,  they  did  not  reach  home  without  difficulty,  for  on  the 
road  they  kill  and  rob  each  other,  so  that  none  but  the  strongest  of 
the  party  ever  reaches  their  forests  and  caves.  He  brings  with  him 
the  booty  of  his  comrades.” 

The  hour  of  performance  came,  and  made  Consuelo  forget  the  som- 
bre thoughts  which  Trenck’s  Pandours  had  evoked.  She  had  no 
dressing-room,  hitherto  Madame  Tesi  having  lent  hers.  On  this  occa- 
sion, though,  la  Tesi,  offended  at  her  success,  had  carried  away  the 
key,  and  the  prima  donna  of  the  night  was  annoyed  to  find  a place  of 
renige.  These  and  similar  treacheries  are  usual  in  theatres,  for  they 
Irritate  and  disturb  the  rival,  the  temper  of  whom  is  sought  to  be  ot 


479 


e®  N8f  sin. 


tended.  She  loses  time  in  finding  a dressing-room,  and  is  afraid  aha 
will  find  ncne.  The  hour  advances,  and  as  her  companions  pass  her* 
they  say,  “ What,  ntt  dressed  yet!  The  curtain  will  soon  rise.”  At 
Jast,  after  many  efforts,  by  means  of  threats  and  menaces,  a room  it 
found,  without,  however,  anything  that  is  required.  All  the  sewing* 
women’s  good-will  having  been  gained  by  some  malicious  enemy-— the 
costume  either  does  not  fit  or  is  unfinished.  The  dressing- women 
wait  on  any  one  but  the  victim  of  this  petty  malice.  The  bell  rings. 
The  call-boy  (the  butta  fuori ) shouts  dovm  the  corridors,  ( Signore 
e Signori , si  va  cominciar ,)  terrible  words  which  frighten  the  debutante 
into  a chill.  She  is  not  ready  and  hurries.  She  hurries,  and  breaks 
her  corset-strings,  she  tears  her  cuffs,  puts  on  her  mantle  awry,  and 
her  crown  will  fall  as  soon  as  she  gains  the  stage.  Trembling,  angry, 
and  nervous,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  must  yet  wear  a celestial 
smile.  She  must  have  a pure  and  fresh  voice,  and  restrain  herself 
when  she  is  almost  choking  with  anger.  Sven  coronets  of  flowers 
thrown  at  such  a time  on  the  stage  conceal  a thorn. 

Fortunately  for  Consuelo,  she  met  Corilla,  who  said,  taking  her 
hand,  “Come  into  my  dressing-room;  la  Tesi  has  flattered  herself 
that  she  would  serve  you  as  she  did  me  at  the  commencement  of  my 
engagement.  I will,  however,  come  to  your  aid,  if  it  be  only  to  foil 
her  and  make  her  angry.  I will  have  that  satisfaction  at' least.  As 
you  now  go  on,  Porporina,  there  is  danger  of  my  seeing  you  far  sur* 
pass  me,  as  every  time  that  I have  met  you  has  been  the  case.  You 
will  certainly  forget  how  I act  now  to  you,  but  will  always  remember 
what  wrong  I have  done  you.” 

“Wrong  done  me,  Corilla?”  said  Consuelo,  as  she  entered  her 
rival’s  dressing-room  and  began  her  toilet  behind  the  screen,  while 
the  German  dressing-women  divided  their  attentions  between  the 
two  singers,  who  were  able  to  speak  Venetian  without  being  under* 
stood.  “ Really,  I do  not  know  what  wrong  you  have  done  me.  I 
have  forgotten  all.” 

“ The  proof  that  you  have  not  forgiven  me  is,  that  you  speak  to  me 
as  if  you  were  a duchess,  and  seem  to  despise  me  ? ” 

“ Well,  I do  not  remember  any  great  wrong  you  have  done  me," 
said  Consuelo,  restraining  her  repugnance  to  familiarity  with  a woman 
who  had  so  little  in  common  with  her. 

“ Is  what  you  say  true  ? Have  you  forgotten  poor  Zoto  ? ” 

“ I was  free  and  had  a right  to  forget  him.  I have  done  so,”  said 
Consuelo,  fastening  her  royal  buskin,  with  a courage  and  freedom  of 
will  wnich  confers  on  us  at  times  the  advantages  of  perfect  use.  She 
made  then  a brilliant  roulade  to  keep  herself  in  voice. 

Corilla  replied  by  another  roulade  for  the  same  purpose.  She  then 
paused  to  say  to  her  attendant,  “ Diavolo,  you  lace  me  too  tight. 
Think  you  I am  a Nuremburg  doll  ? These  Germans,”  said  she  in 
Venetian,  “ do  not  know  what  shoulders  are.  They  would  make  u* 
square  as  their  own  old  women,  if  we  would  let  them.  Porporina,  do 
not  let  them  bundle  you  up  to  your  ears  as  they  did  last  time.  It  was 
absurd.” 

“ Ah!  my  dear,  that  is  the  empress’s  order. — These  ladles  know  it, 
Mid  I would  not  make  a difficulty  about  such  a trifle.” 

“ Trifle ! one’s  shoulders  a trifle  ? ” 

* I do  not  say  so  of  yours,  for  they  are  beautiful  as  possible ; bub—1 * 

* Hypocrite ! ” said  Corilla,  sighing;  “you  are  ten  years  yotraftf 

than  I am.  and  the  beauty  of  my  shculders  Is  now  traditional.* 


* You  are  the  hypocrite,”  said  Consuelo,  terribly  annoyed  oy  this 
ldnd  of  conversation — and  as  she  wished  to  end  it,  she  began  at  ones 

to  sing. 

u Be  silent,”  said  Corilla  at  once  ; “ you  drive  a thousand  poniards 
into  my  bosom.  Ah ! I would  willingly  yield  you  all  my  lovers — I am 
sure  to  find  others.  I can  never,  however,  dispute  with  you  in  the 
matter  of  voice  and  manner.  Hush  I for  I wish  to  strangle  you.” 
Consuelo  saw  clearly  that  Corilla  did  not  jest  altogether,  and  that 
this  mocking  flattery  concealed  real  suffering.  After  pausing  an  in- 
stant, the  latter  said,  “ How  do  you  make  that  phrase  ? ” 

M Do  you  wish  to  make  it?  Well,  I will  give  it  to  you,”  said  Con- 
suelo, with  admirable  grace.  “ Listen,  I will  teach  you.  Insert  it  to* 
night  somewhere  on  your  role — I will  make  another.” 
u Then  it  will  be  handsomer  than  this,  and  I will  gain  nothing!  ” 

" No;  I will  make  no  change.  Porpora  does  not  like  these  things, 
and  to-night  he  will  have  one  reproach  less  to  make  me.  See,  here  is 
the  passage,”  and  she  passed  it  through  the  screen  to  Corilla,  who  be- 
gan at  once  to  study  it.  Consuelo  assisted  her,  and  after  repeating  it 
several  times,  succeeded  perfectly.  Their  toilets  were  yet  progressing. 

Before  Consuelo  had  put  on  her  dress,  Corilla  suddenly  pushed 
aside  the  screen,  and  kissed  her  thankfully  for  the  sacrifice  she  had 
made  of  the  embellishment.  It  was  not  an  impulse  of  pure  gratitude 
that  induced  her  to  do  so.  She  was  also  influenced  by  a wish  to  as- 
certain the  fashion  of  her  rival’s  corset,  in  order  to  detect  any  imper- 
fection. Consuelo,  however,  did  not  lace ; her  waist  was  loose  as  pos- 
sible, and  her  chaste  and  noble  form  was  indebted  to  art  for  nothing. 
She  saw  la  Gorilla’s  idea,  and  smiling,  thought — “You  may  examine 
my  person  and  look  into  my  heart,  no  falsehood  is  there.” 

“ Zingarella,”  said  Corilla,  resuming,  in  spite  of  herself,  her  bitter, 
coarse  tone ; “ do  you  then  love  Anzoleto  no  more  ? ” 

“ Not  in  the  least,”  said  she  with  a smile. 

" Yet  he  loved  you  well.” 

u No,  no,”  said  Consuelo,  with  the  same  air  and  the  same  expres- 
sion of  conviction. 

“ He  told  me  so,”  said  Corilla,  fixing  her  clear  blue  eyes  on  her,  ex- 
pecting to  find  some  sorrow  and  to  awake  some  regret  for  the  past,  in 
her  rival’s  heart. 

Consuelo  was  not  proud  of  her  penetration,  but,  like  all  pure  and 
sincere  persons,  she  was  amply  able  to  combat  an  astute  one.  She  no 
longer  loved  Anzoleto ; she  was  not  ignorant  of  suffering,  of  outraged 
self-esteem,  and  therefore  showed  Corilla  this  triumph  of  vanity. 
w He  told  you  an  untruth ; he  never  loved  me.” 
u But  did  you  never  love  him?  ” said  she,  rather  surprised  than  as- 
tonished at  this  confession. 

Consuelo  knew  that  she  could  not  make  a half-confession.  Corilla 
wished  to  know  all,  and  she  resolved  to  satisfy  her.  She  said:  MI 
loved  him  dearly.” 

u And  you  own  it?  Have  you  no  pride,  child?  ” 

“ I had  enough  to  overcome  it.” 

* That  is  to  say,  you  were  philosopher  enough  to  seek  consolation 
from  another?  From  that  little  Haydn,  perhaps,  who  is  as  poor  as 
possible?” 

u That  would  be  nothing.  I have  consoled  myself  with  no  one  in 
the  manner  you  mean.” 

u Ah ! true ; I forgot,  you  pretended.  Do  not  say  such  things,  my 
isar;  you  make  yourself  ridiculous.” 


4T4 


60KIU1L0, 


“Then  I will  not,  unless- 1 am  questioned  ; and  I will  not  permit 
every  one  to  do  so.  I have  suffered  you,  dear  Corilla,  to  take  that 
liberty,  but  you  must  not  abuse  it,  if  you  are  my  friend.” 

“ You  are  a perfect  mask,”  said  Corilla.  * You  act  the  innocent 
You  have  so  much  good  sense,  that  I am  inclined  to  think  you  pure, 
as  I was  when  twelve  year3  of  age.  Yet  this  is  impossible.  Ah,  Zin- 
garella,  you  are  very  shrewd,  and  can  make  men  believe  anything  you 
please.” 

“ I will  make  them  believe  nothing,  for  I will  not  permit  them  to 
be  interested  in  my  affairs  enough  to  question  me.” 

“ That  will  be  best.  They  always  make  a bad  use  of  our  confes- 
sions, and  no  sooner  wrest  them  from  us  than  they  take  advantage  of 
them.  I see  you  know  your  own  business.  You  are  right  in  not 
wishing  to  inspire  love.  By  not  doing  so  you  will  have  no  trouble,  no 
storms.  You  will  act  freely,  without  deceiving  any  one.  I could  not 
act  so;  amid  my  greatest  successes  I always  committed  some  folly, 
which  destroyed  all.  I conceive  a passion  for  some  poor  devil,  and 
then  farewell  fortune ! Once  I could  have  married  Zustiniani.  Yea 
I could,  for  he  adored  me,  but  I could  not  bear  him.  That  miserable 
Anzoleto,  though,  pleased  me.  I lost  my  position.  Give  me  some 
advice;  you  will  be  my  friend,  will  you  not?  You  will  preserve  me 
from  the  weakness  of  my  heart,  and  the  effects  of  my  scheming  brain. 
To  begin — I must  tell  you  that  for  eight  days  I have  had  an  inclina- 
tion for  a man  the  Influence  of  whom  rapidly  decays,  and  who,  in  a 
short  time,  may  be  rather  injurious  than  beneficial  to  one  at  court. 
"He  is  worth  millions,  but  may  be  ruined  in  an  instant.  I wish  to  sep- 
arate myself  from  him  before  he  drags  me  down  in  his  own  ruin. 
Ah!  the  devil  plots  against  me,  for  here  the  man  comes,  and  I feel* the 
fire  of  jealousy  rushing  to  my  face.  Shut  the  screen  closely,  Porpo- 
rina,  and  do  not  move ; I do  not  wish  him  to  see  you.” 

Consuelo  closed  the  screen.  She  needed  not  Corilla’s  advice  to 
avoid  being  examined  by  her  lovers.  A man’s  voice,  musical  and 
clear,  though  without  freshness,  was  heard  at  the  door.  He  tapped 
for  form’s  sake,  and  came  in  without  pausing  for  a. reply. 

“Horrible  profession!”  thought  Consuelo.  “ No,  I will  not  suffer 
myself  to  be  influenced  by  the  intoxication  of  the  stage.  Behind  the 
scenes  all  things  are  impure. 

She  sat  in  a tomer,  deeply  mortified  at  being  in  such  company,  and 
indignant  and  afraid  at  the  manner  in  which  Corilla  had  conversed 
with  her.  She  had  plunged  at  once  into  an  abyss  of  corruption,  of 
which  she  previously  had  no  idea. 


CHAPTER  XCV. 

While,  from  fear  of  interruption,  she  hastily  concluded  her  toilet, 
ike  heard  the  following  dialogue  in  Italian : 

“ Why  do  you  come  here  ? I told  you  not  to  come  to  my  dressing* 
room.  The  empress  has,  under  the  most  severe  penalty,  forbidden  us 
to  receive  any  one  but  o ar  brother  artists  here ; and  we  can  only  see 
them  wher  the  business  of  the  theatre  requires  it.  See  what  you  ex* 
pose  me  to  I did  not  think  things  were  so  badly  managed.” 


CON  8UB!iO. 


4TI 


" When  people  pay  well  they  go  anywhere.  Beggars  are  tha  only 
people  who  find  any  difficulty  in  going  where  they  please.  Cone* 
now,  be  more  civil,  or  I will  never  see  you  again.” 

“ Would  to  heaven  that  you  never  would ! Go  1 Why  do  you 

not?” 

“You  seem  to  be  so  anxious,  that  I remain  out  of  spite.* 

“ I tell  you  unless  you  go  I will  send  for  the  master  of  the  theatre, 
and  thus  get  rid  of  you.”  i 

“ He  can  come  as  soon  as  he  is  tired  of  life.” 

“ Are  you  mad  ? I tell  you  that  you  compromise  me  by  this  con- 
duct, and  make  me  violate  a rule  recently  imposed  by  her  majesty. 
You  expose  me  either  to  a heavy  fine  or  to  discharge.” 

“ Fine  ? I will  pay  your  fine  with  my  cane.  As  for  a discharge,  it 
is  exactly  what  I want.  I will  take  you  to  my  estate,  and  there  we 
will  lead  a delicious  life.” 

“Follow  such  a brute  as  you?  Never!  Let  us  go  out  together, 
then,  since  you  will  not  leave  me  alone.” 

“ Alone,  my  charmer  ? I wish  to  be  sure  of  that  before  I go.  That 
screen  is  utterly  out  of  place  in  such  a small  room.  It  seems  to  me 
if  I pushed  it  over  I would  do  you  a service.” 

“ Do  not  so,  sir.  A lady  is  dressing  there.  Brigand  as  you  are 
would  you  kill  or  injure  a woman  ? ” 

“ A woman  ? Ah  I that  is  a different  matter.  I wish,  however,  to 
see  if  that  woman  does  not  wear  a sword.” 

The  screen  began  to  tremble,  and  Consuelo,  who  had  finished  her 
toilet,  put  on  her  mantle,  and  while  the  first  fold  of  the  screen  was 
closing,  tried  to  open  the  last,  and  escape  through  the  door,  which  was 
only  a few  feet  distant.  Corilla,  however,  saw  her  intention,  and  said 
— “ Be  still,  Porporina ; if  he  did  not  find  you  he  would  be  satisfied 
some  man  was  hidden  there,  and  would  kill  me.”  Consuelo  resolvec 
to  come  out,  but  la  Corilla  had  closed  the  screen,  and  prevented  her 
from  doing  so.  Perhaps  she  hoped  that  by  exciting  his  jealousy  she 
would  enkindle  passion  enough  to  keep  him  from  observing  the  grace 
ol  her  rival. 

“ If  there  be  a lady  there,  let  her  answer  mo.  Madam,  are  you 
dressed  ? Can  I do  homage  to  charms  ? ” 

“ Sir,”  said  Consuelo,  in  obedience  to  an  intimation  from  CoriHa, 
“ keep  your  compliments  for  some  one  else,  and  excuse  me.  I am  not 
visible.” 

“ That  means,  this  is  precisely  the  time  to  look  at  you,”  said  Co* 
rilla’s  lover,  attempting  to  go  behind  the  screen. 

“ Take  care,”  said  Corilla,  with  a forced  laugh.  “ What  if  in  place 
of  a naked  shepherdess  you  see  a dowager  ? ” 

“ Diablel  But  no;  her  voice  is  too  fresh  to  belong  to  a person 
more  than  twenty  years  old.  Besides,  if  she  had  not  been  pretty,  you 
would  have  suffered  me  to  see  her  long  ago.” 

The  screen  was  very  high,  and,  in  spite  of  his  tallness,  the  lover 
could  not  see  above  it  unless  he  threw  down  all  the  articles  of  Co- 
rilla’s  toilet,  which  hung  on  the  chairs.  Now,  too,  that  he  was  not 
afraid  that  her  inmate  was  a man,  the  game  amused  him. 

“ Madam,”  said  he,  “ if  you  be  old  and  ugly,  I will  respect  your 
asylum.  If  though,  you  be  young  and  handsome,  do  not  let  Corilla 
slander  you,  and  only  give  me  leave  to  pass  the  lines.”  Consuelo  was 
silent.  “ Ah ! on  my  word,”  said  he,  after  a moment’s  silence,  “ I will 
not  be  duped.  If  yoi  were  old  an^  ugly  you  would  not  bear  to  hear 


476 


CONSUEI0 


yonnelf  called  so  with  such  perfect  coolness.  It  is  because  you  as* 
an  angel  that  you  laugh  at  my  doubts.  At  all  events,  then,  I must  see 
you,  for  you  are  a prodigy  of  beauty,  capable  even  of  inspiring  Gorilla 
with  fears  in  relation  to  herself,  or  you  are  a person  with  mind  enough 
to  own  that  you  are  ugly.  If  that  be  so  I shall  be  glad  for  once  in  my 
ife  to  see  an  ugly  woman  without  vanity.” 

He  took  hold  of  Corilla’s  arm  with  only  two  fingers,  and  bent  it  as 
If  it  had  been  a wisp  of  straw.  She  cried  out  that  he  had  hurt  her 
severely,  and,  opening  the  screen,  exposed  to  Consuelo  the  horrible 
face  of  Baron  Francis  von  Trenck.  A rich  court  dress  replaced  his 
savage  costume,  but  his  giant  form,  and  the  large  purple  spots  on  his 
sun-burned  face,  made  it  easy  to  recognise  at  once  the  pitiless  and 
bold  leader  of  the  Pandours. 

Consuelo  could  not  repress  a cry  of  terror,  and  pale  with  fear,  sank 
back  on  her  chair.  “ Do  not  be  afraid  of  me,  madam,”  said  the 
baron,  kneeling,  “ and  forgive  the  temerity,  which,  when  I see  you,  it 
is  impossible  for  me  to  regret.  Let  me  think  that  it  was  from  pity, 
(knowing  that  I cannot  see  without  adoring  you,)  that  you  refused  to 
see  me.  Do  not  distress  me  by  letting  me  think  I have  frightened 
you,  ugly  as  I am.  If  war  has  turned  a handsome  enough  young  man 
into  a kind  of  monster,  be  sure  it  has  not  injured  me  in  any  other  re- 
spect.” 

“ To  injure  you  were  impossible,”  said  Consuelo,  turning  her  back 
on  him. 

“ See  there,”  said  the  baron ; “ you  are  stern  indeed,  and  your  nurse 
must  .have  told  you  some  vampire  stories  about  me,  as  the  old  women 
of  this  country  ever  do.  The  fair,  though,  do  me  justice,  being  well 
aware  that  if  I am  rude  in  my  treatment  of  the  enemies  of  my  coun- 
try, I am  able  to  civilize  myself  if  they  give  me  an  opportunity.” 
Leaning  toward  the  mirror  in  which  Consuelo  pretended  to  examine 
herself,  he  cast  on  it  the  savage,  and  at  the  same  time  voluptuous 
look,  the  brutal  fascination  of  which  had  overpowered  Corilla.  Con- 
suelo saw  that  the  only  way  to  shake  him  off  was  to  offend  him. 

u Baron,”  said  she,  “ you  do  not  inspire  me  with  fear,  but  with  dis- 
gust and  aversion.  You  love  to  kill,  and  I am  not  afraid  to  die.  I 
hate  all  sanguinary  natures,  and  such  I know  yours  to  be ; I have 
♦ravelled  after  you  in  Bohemia.” 

The  baron  changed  countenance,  turned  towards  Corilla,  and  said : 

“ What  a she-devil  this  is ! The  Baron  Lestocq,  who  fired  a pistoi 
at  me,  was  not  more  perfectly  out  of  humor.  Have  I ever  trampled 
down  her  lover  ? Come,  my  pretty  one,  be  at  ease,  for  I did  but  jest 
If  you  are  ill-tempered  I deserve  your  reproof  for  having  suffered  my- 
self to  stray,  though  but  for  a moment,  from  my  divine  Corilla.” 

“ Your  divine  Corilla,”  said  she,  “ cares  very  little  about  your  vaga- 
ries. I beg  you  to  leave — for  in  a moment  the  manager  will  make  his 
tour — unless  you  are  determined  to  get  us  into  difficulty.” 

“ I am  going,”  said  the  baron;  (i  I do  not  wish  to  trouble  you,  and 
deprive  the  public  of  the  freshness  of  your  voice  by  making  you  weep. 
My  carriage  will  wait  for  you  after  the  play.  This  is  understood.” 
He  snatch  3d  a kiss  from  her  in  the  presence  of  Consuelo,  and  left. 

Corilla  at  once  threw  her  arms  around  Consuelo’s  neck,  and  thank- 
ed her  for  having  thus  rid  her  of  Von  Trenck.  Consuelo  looked  away, 
for  Corilla^ sullied  with  the  kiss  of  such  a man,  was  an  object  of  almost 
as  much  disgust  as  he  was. 

u How  can  you  be  jealous  of  so  disgusting  a being?  ” ask«d  Con' 
sneio. 


CONSUEI  O. 


477 

* Zfoigarella,’  said  she,  with  a smile,  ‘ you  do  not  now  know  your 
©wn  heart.  The  baron  pleases  more  exalted  women,  and  many  who 
call  themselves  more  virtuous  than  me.  His  form  is  superb,  and  hi* 
face,  though  covered  with  scars,  has  an  attraction  you  could  not  re- 
sist if  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  pay  court  to  you.” 

w Ah,  Corilla,  it  is  not  his  face  that  disgusts  me,  his  mind  is  yet 
more  hideous.  You  do  not  know  that  he  has  a perfect  tiger’s  heart” 

44  That  is  what  led  me  astray,”  said  Corilla.  “ To  hear  the  common 
stories  of  all  the  fools  who  hover  around  us  is  a glorious  thing,  for- 
sooth ! To  bind  a tiger,  though — to  subdue  a forest  lion — to  lead  him 
hi  a leash — to  make  one  sigh,  weep,  blush,  and  tremble  at  a single 
glance,  whose  look  has  routed  armies — and  with. one  blow  of  his  sa- 
bre cut  off  an  ox’s  head — is  a more  intense  pleasure  than  I have  ever 
known.  Anzoleto  was  something  of  that  kind ; I loved  him  for  his 
depravity;  the  baron, however,  is  much  worse.  The  one  was  capable 
of  beating  his  mistress,  the  baron  might  kill  her.  Oh  I I love  him 
much  more  I ” 

" Poor  Corilla  I ” said  Consuelo,  looking  at  her  with  a glance  of 
deep  pity. 

u You  pity  me,  because  I love  him.  You  are  right.  You  hare 
more  reason,  though,  to  envy  me.  I had  rather,  after  all,  that  you 
pitied  than  that  you  should  contend  with  me  for  him.” 

“ Do  not  be  afraid,”  said  Consuelo. 

“ Signora  si  va  cominciar  / ” said  the  call-boy. 

u Cominceate  l ” sang  out  a stentorian  voice  from  the  floor  occupied 
by  the  dressing-rooms  of  the  chorus. 

* Cominceate  /”  said  another  melancholy  and  deep  voice  below  the 
stairway,  and  beneath  the  stage.  The  last  syllables  were  echoed  be- 
hind the  scene,  until  they  reached  the  prompter,  who  communicated 
them  to  the  leader  of  the  orchestra  by  three  taps  on  the  floor.  The 
latter  tapped  on  his  music-stand,  and  after  the  moment  of  palpitation 
which  precedes  the  commencement  of  the  overture,  the  symphony 
began,  and  silence  pervaded  the  house,  both  before  and  behind  the 
curtain. 

From  the  commencement  of  the  first  act  of  Zenobia,  Consuelo  pro* 
duced  the  complete  and  resistless  effect  which  Haydn  had  predicted. 
Great  talent  does  not  always  produce  an  infallible  effect  on  the  stage, 
even  supposing  that  their  power  never  declines ; all  parts  and  all  cir- 
cumstances are  not  calculated  for  the  development  of  the  most  bril- 
liant faculties.  This  was  the  first  time  that  Consuelo  had  a role — a 
part  in  which  she  could  exhibit  herself  in  her  candor,  power,  tender- 
ness, and  purity,  without  regard  to  art  and  without  any  effort  to  iden- 
tify herself  with  an  unknown  person.  She  could  forget  this  terrible 
labor,  abandon  herself  to  the  emotion  of  the  moment,  and  inspire  at 
once  pathetic  and  profound  feelings,  which  she  had  not  had  time  to 
study,  and  which  were  revealed  by  the  magnetism  of  a sympathetic 
audience.  She  now  experienced  an  indescribable  pleasure,  and  deaf 
to  the  clamor  of  the  crowd,  in  her  own  heart,  applauded  herself. 

After  the  first  act  she  remained  at  the  fly,  to  hear  the  interlude, 
and  to  encourage  her  by  applause.  After  the  second  act  she  felt  that 
repose  was  necessary,  and  went  to  the  dressing-room.  Porpora,  who 
was  otherwise  engaged,  did  not  go  with  her,  and  Haydn,  who,  by  the 
secret  influence  of  the  imperial  patronage,  had  been  received  as  on* 

the  violins, of  the  orchestra,  remained  at  his  post. 

Oonsuelo  went  to  Gorilla’s  dressing-room,  the  latter  having  given 


4TB  0 OH  lt)ELO. 

tor  the  Key,  alone.  She  took  a glass  of  water,  and  for  a moment  iaf 
on  the  sofa.  Suddenly  she  remembered  the  Pandour,  and  arose  ana 
locked  the  door.  There  was,  however,  no  probability  that  he  would 
come  to  annoy  her.  He  had,  on  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  gone  to  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  Consuelo  had  seen  him  in  one  of  the  bal 
conies  amid  her  most  fantastic  admirers.  He  was  passionately  fond 
of  music,  having  been  born  and  educated  in  Italy,  the  language  of 
which  country  he  spoke  perfectly.  Had  he  been  born  without  any 
other  resources,  he  could  have  made  his  fortune  at  the  theatre,  his 
biographers  maintain. 

Consuelo,  however,  was  perfectly  amazed  when,  on  returning  to  the 
eofa,  she  saw  the  screen  move,  and  the  Pandour  come  from  behind  it. 

She  rushed  to  the  door,  but  Trenck  was  too  quick,  and  placing  his 
back  against  the  lock,  said : — 

“ Be  calm,  my  charmer.”  As  he  spoke,  he  put  on  a terrible  smile. 
u Since  you  share  this  dressing-room  with  Gorilla,  you  must  grow 
used  to  meeting  her  lover  here;  for  you  cannot  be  ignorant  that  he 
too  has  a key  to  it.  You  have  thrown  yourself  into  the  lion’s  den. 
Do  not  call,  for  no  one  will  hear  you.  All  know  the  presence  of  mind 
of  Trenck,  and  also  his  total  disregard  of  life,  the  strength  of  his  wrist, 
and  his  utter  contempt  of  fools.  If,  in  violation  of  the  imperial  order, 
he  is  permitted  to  come  here,  it  is  because  among  all  these  ballad- 
singers  there  is  not  one  dares  look  him  in  the  face.  Why  need  you 
grow  pale  and  tremble  ? Have  you  so  little  confidence  in  me  that 
you  will  not  hear  me  speak  three  words  ? Do  you  think  me  a man 
apt  to  violate  and  outrage  you?  These  are  the  gossipings  of  old  wo- 
men. Trenck  is  not  so  bad  as  they  say ; and  to  prove  this,  he  wishes 
to  speak  with  you  for  a few  moments.” 

“ Monsieur,  I will  not  hear  one  word  until  you  have  opened  that 
door,”  said  Consuelo,  regaining  her  presence  of  mind.  “ If  you  will 
do  that,  I will  listen  to  you ; but  if  you  persist  in  confining  me  here, 
I am  satisfied  that,  brave  as  you  are,  you  dare  not  confront  my  com- 
panions, the  ballad-singers.” 

“ You  are  right,”  said  Trenck,  throwing  the  door  open.  “ As  you 
are  not  afraid  of  offending  me,  I too  prefer  fresh  air  to  being  stifled 
by  the  musk  with  which  Gorilla  has  filled  all  this  room.  You  have 
done  me  a service.” 

While  he  spoke,  he  took  possession  of  Consuelo’s  hands,  forced  her 
to  sit  down,  and  placed  his  hands  on  her  knees  without  releasing  her 
own.  She  could  not  resist  without  bringing  on  a mere  puerile  dis- 
pute, which  perhaps  would  provoke  him  to  resistance,  and  destroy  all 
scruple  and  respect.  Consuelo  saw  this,  and  resigned  herself.  She 
could  not  resist  letting  fall  one  pale  sad  tear.  The  baron  saw  this, 
and  instead  of  being  moved  or  disarmed,  suffered  a wild  and  cruel 
joy  to  play  on  his  blood-stained  lips,  which,  by  the  explosion,  had 
been  completely  excoriated. 

“ You  are  very  unjust  to  me,”  said  he  in  a voice,  the  coarseness  and 
wildness  of  which  betrayed  a most  hypocritical  satisfaction.  “ You 
hate  me  without  knowing  me,  and  are  unwilling  to  hear  my  justifica- 
tion. I cannot,  however,  submit  so  foolishly  to  your  aversion.  One 
hour  ago  I cared  nothing  about  it ; but  since  I have  heard  the  divine 
Porporina,  I love  her,  and  feel  I must  either  live  for  her  or  die  by  her 
band.” 

u Do  not  inflict  this  stupid  comedy  on  me,”  said  Consuelo,  perfectly 

enraged. 


60HSUKL6' 


4TI 

• Corned?  f " said  tlie  jaron,  “ Look  you  here.*  As  he  spoke,  he 
took  a loaded  pistol  from  his  pocket  and  cocked  ft.  44  Take  this  pis- 
tol in  one  of  your  beautiful  hands,  and  if  I have  in  any  respect  offend- 
ed you — if  I am  yet  odious — kill  me.  This  other  hand  I am  resolved 
to  hold  as  long  as  you  will  permit  me  to  kiss  it.  I will  give  this 
favor  to  yourself,  and  you  will  see  me  wait  patiently  for  it  under  the 
muzzle  of  this  murderous  weapon,  which  you  can  turn  on  me  when- 
ever you  cannot  resist  my  annoyance.” 

Trenck  really  gave  Consuelo  the  weapon,  and  retained  her  left 
hand  by  force  while  he  remained  on  his  knees  with  the  confidence 
of  the  rarest  fatuity.  Consuelo  then  felt  herself  very  strong,  and 
placing  the  pistol  so  that  she  could  use  it  at  any  moment  of  danger, 
said  with  a smile : 

“ You  may  speak ; I listen  to  you.” 

As  she  spoke,  she  fancied  that  she  heard  steps  in  the  corridor,  and 
soon  the  shadow  of  some  one  crossing  the  door.  The  shadow,  how- 
ever, disappeared  at  once,  either  because  the  person  returned,  or  that 
Consuelo’s  terror  was  imaginary.  Situated  as  she  was,  and  appre- 
hending nothing  but  scandal,  the  approach  of  any  one,  whether  neg- 
ative or  inclined  to  aid  her,  made  her  rather  afraid  than  otherwise.  If 
she  kept  silence,  the  baron,  found  on  his  knees,  with  the  door  open, 
might  pretend  to  have  been  favored  by  her;  if  she  called  for  aid,  the 
baron  would  certainly  kill  the  first  man  who  entered.  There  were  fifty 
similar  instances  in  his  private  career;  and  the  victims  of  his  passions 
had  always  been  more  or  less  disgraced.  In  this  terrible  alternative, 
Consuelo  could  devise  nothing  more  than  a prompt  explanation ; and 
hoped  that  her  own  presence  of  mind  would  restore  Trenck’s  reason,, 
without  having  any  witness  to  comment  on  or  arbitrarily  interpret 
this  whimsical  adventure.  He  understood  her  partially,  and  half- 
closed  the  door. 

44  Keally,  madam,”  said  he,  returning  to  her,  “ it  would  be  mad  to 
expose  yourself  to  the  notice  of  passers-by,  for  this  difficulty  we  must 
settle  between  ourselves.  Hear  me : I see  your  fears,  and  know  all 
the  scruples  of  your  friendship  for  Coriila.  Your  honor,  your  reputa- 
tion, your  truth,  are  yet  dearer  to  me  than  these  precious  moments 
during  which  I am  enabled  to  see  you  alone.  I know  well  enough 
that  the  panther,  of  whom  I was  enamored  half  an  hour  ago,  would 
accuse  you  of  treachery  if  she  found  me  at  your  fOet.  She  shall  not. 
I have  regulated  all  that ; and  she  must  by  her  tricks  amuse  the  pub- 
lic for  yet  ten  minutes  more.  I have,  therefore,  time  enough  to  say, 
that  if  I have  loved  her,  I have  forgotten  her  completely  as  I have  the 
first  apple  I ever  ate ; do  not  therefore  fear  to  take  from  her  a heart 
she  has  lost  already,  but  which  henceforth  nothing  can  efface  youi 
image.  You  alone,  madam,  rule,  and  may  control  my  life.  Why  hes- 
itate? You  have,  they  say,  a lover.  I will  get  rid  of  him  in  a mo- 
ment. You  are  watched  by  a malicious  and  ill-tempered  guardian. 
I will  carry  you  away  in  spite  of  his  teeth.  You  have  a thousand 
plots  against  you  in  the  theatre.  It  is  true  the  public  love  you, 
but  the  public  is  ungrateful,  and  will  desert  you  as  soon  as  you  begin 
to  fail.” 

44 1 am  immensely  rich,  and  can  make  a princess  of  you — almost  a 
queen — in  a savage  land,  but  where,  by  a glance,  I can  build  palaces 
and  theatres  vaster  than  those  of  Vienna.  If  you  ask  for  an  audi- 
ence, by  one  fiash  of  my  sword  I can  cause  to  spring  from  the  ground 
a populace  as  devoted,  and  far  more  faithful  than  that  of  Vienna.  1 


480 


CONSUELO. 


know  I am  no  beauty ; but  the  scars  on  my  face  are  more  respectable 
and  honorable  than  the  paint  on  the  cheeks  of  your  buffoons.  I am 
•tern  to  my  serfs,  and  never  forgive  my  enemies,  but  to  faithful  ser- 
vants I am  kind.  Those  I love  swim  in  joy,  glory  and  opulence. 
Sometimes  I am  violent,  as  you  have  heard,  for  one  cannot  be  brave 
and  strong  as  I am,  without  being  anxious  to  make  use  of  power 
when  vengeance  or  pride  demand  it.  A pure  and  timid  woman, 
though,  gentle  and  charming  as  you  are,  may  subdue  my  power,  and 
keep  me  like  a child  at  her  feet.  Try  to  do  so.  Be  mine  secretly  for 
a time,  and  you  will  see  that  you  can  confide  your  future  fate  to  me, 
and  accompany  me  to  Sclavonia. 

“ You  smile.  My  country  reminds  you  of  slavery,  but,  divine  Por- 
porina,  I will  be  the  slave.  Look  at  me,  and  grow  used  to  this  want 
of  beauty,  which  your  love  would  cause  to  disappear.  Speak  but  the 
word,  and  you  will  see  that  Trenck,  the  Austrian,  from  his  red  eyes 
can  shed  tears  of  love  and  joy  as  well  as  his  dear  Prussian  cousin 
whom  he  loves,  though  they  have  fought  in  opposite  ranks-,  and  to 
whom,  as  people  say,  you  were  not  indifferent.  The  Prussian,  how- 
ever, is  a child,  while  I,  though  yet  young,  (I  am  but  thirty-five, 
wrinkled  as  my  face  is,)  seem  twice  as  old  as  he  is.  I have  passed  the 
age  of  caprice,  and  can  promise  you  long  years  of  happiness.  Speak, 
•peak  to  me,  and  you  will  see  that  passion  can  transform  Trenck,  the 
Pandour,  into  a Jupiter.  You  do  not  answer;  a touching  modesty 
makes  you  hesitate.  You  say  nothing.  Suffer  me  to  kiss  your  hand 
»nd  withdraw,  full  of  hope  and  happiness.  See  if  I am  a brute  and 
a tiger,  as  I have  been  described.  I ask  but  an  innocent  favor,  and  I 
implore  it  on  my  knees.” 

Consuelo  looked  at  the  Pandour,  the  seducer  of  so  many  women,  with 
complete  surprise.  She  carefully  studied  the  secret  of  that  fascina- 
tion which,  in  spite  of  his  deformity,  would  have  been  so  irresistible, 
had  he  been  a good  and  sincere  man,  and  if  his  passion  had  not  been 
the  Quixotism  of  impertinent  presumption. 

“ Have  you  done,  baron  ? ” she  said,  calmly;  but  suddenly  she  grew 
pale,  as  she  saw  a handful  of  diamonds,  pearls,  and  huge  rubies,  which 
the  tyrant  had  thrown  in  her  lap.  She  rose  abruptly,  and  suffered  all 
these  gems  to  fall  on  the  floor.  Corilla  would  pick  them  up. 

u Trenck,”  said  she,  with  the  deepest  disgust  and  indignation,  “ in 
•pile  of  your  vaunted  courage,  you  are  a vile  coward.  You  have  only 
fought  with  flocks  and  herds,  and  then  you  slew  without  pity.  From 
a true  man  you  would  have  fled  like  a wolf,  as  you  are.  All  these 
glorious  scars,  I am  well  aware,  were  received  in  a cave  where  you 
fought  for  gold  amid  the  carcasses  of  your  victims.  Your  castle  and 
four  little  kingdom  are  formed  from  the  blood  of  a noble  people,  on 
whom  despotism  inflicts  such  a compatriot  as  you  are  for  a ruler. 
You  have  robbed  the  orphan  of  bread,  the  widow  of  her  mite — your 
gold  is  the  price  of  treachery — your  riches  the  pillage  of  churches. 
Your  Prussian  cousin,  whom  you  love  so  tenderly,  you  have  betrayed 
akd  wished  to  murder;  the  women,  the  glory  of  whom  you  say  you  t 
have  made,  you  have  violated,  after  murdering  their  lovers  and  hus- 
bands. The  tenderness  for  me,  of  which  you  boast  so  much,  is  the 
whim  of  a worn-out  libertine.  This  chivalric  submission  which  in- 
duced you  to  place  your  life  in  my  hands,  is  but  a trifling  favor.  To 
slay  you  would  be  a disgrace,  from  which  I could  only  purify  myself 
by  suicide.  This  is  all  I have  to  say,  Pandour.  Quit  my  sight,  for  if 
you  do  not  lot  go  my  hand,  which  you  have  held,  and  which  for  Um 


tidHieHLo.  411 

last  half  hoar  has  grown  like  ice  in  your  own,  I will  Kow  oat  yoaf 

brains  and  purify  the  earth  from  your  presence.” 

u Is  that  all  you  have  to  say,  she  devil?  Well,  the  pistol  I have 
placed  in  your  hand  is  unfortunately  loaded  with  powder.  One  scar 
Store  or  less  would  do  no  harm  to  one  fire-proof,  as  I am.  Fire  the 
pistol — make  a noise — that  is  all  I want.  I shall  be  satisfied  with  hav- 
ing witnesses  of  my  victory.  Nothing  now  can  shield  you  from  my 
embraces,  and  by  your  folly  you  have  aroused  a fire  which,  by  a little 
prudence,  you  might  have  restrained.” 

While  speaking  thus,  Trenck  seized  Consuelo  in  his  arms;  just 
then,  however,  the  door  opened,  and  a man,  the  face  of  whom  was 
completely  covered  by  a crape  mask,  placed  his  hand  on  the  Pandour 
and  made  him  tremble  and  quail  like  a reed  in  the  wind,  and  furi- 
ously cast  him  on  the  ground.  All  this  took  place  in  the  course  of  a 
second.  Trenck,  completely  astounded,  rose  up  with  haggard  eyes 
arid  a foaming  mouth.  He  drew  his  sword  and  rushed  on  his  enemy, 
who  went  to  the  door  and  seemed  to  fly.  Consuelo  also  hurried  to 
the  door,  fancying  that  in  this  man  she  recognized  the  form  and  bear- 
ing of  Albert.  She  saw  him  go  to  the  end  of  the  passage,  where  a 
wading  staircase  descended  rapidly  to  the  street.  There  he  paused 
—waited  for  Trenck — stooped  quickly,  suffering  the  baron’s  sword  to 
strike  the  wall.  He  then  took  him  in  his  arms  and  threw  him  over 
his  shoulders,  head  foremosjt,  down  the  stairway.  Consuelo  heard  the 
giant  fall  down  the  steps.  She  wished  to  hurry  after  the  unknown, 
and  call  him  Albert.  He  had  disappeared,  however,  before  she  had 
strength  enough  to  make  three  steps.  There  was  a terrible  silence  on 
the  whole  staircase. 

“ Signora , cinque  minuti”  said  the  call-boy  kindly,  as  he  came 
from  the  theatre  up  the  stairway,  which  ended  at  the  same  place.  He 
then  said — “ How  came  this  door  open  ? ” as  he  saw  the  door  through 
which  Trenck  had  been  thrown.  “ Indeed  your  ladyship  has  run  a 
great  risk  of  taking  cold.”  He  shut  the  door  and  locked  it,  in  obedi- 
ence to  orders ; while  Consuelo,  more  dead  than  alive,  returned  to  her 
dressing-room,  and  threw  out  of  the  window  the  pistol  which  had  re- 
mained on  the  sofa,  kicked  under  the  furniture  the  gems  and  rubies 
which  yet  glistened  on  the  carpet,  and  went  to  the  theatre,  where  she 
found  Corilla  yet  blushing  and  panting  at  her  triumph,  in  the  inter- 
lade. 


CHAPTER  XCYL 

In  spite  of  the  agitation  which  had  convulsed  Consuelo,  she  sur* 
passed  herself  even  in  the  third  act.  She  had  not  expected  this,  nor 
did  she  rely  on  it.  She  went  on  the  stage  with  the  resolution  of  fail- 
ing with  honor,  vtfien  suddenly  she  recovered  her  powers.  She  was 
not  afraid.  A thousand  hisses  would  have  been  nothing  compared 
with  the  danger  and  terr.or  from  which  she  had  escaped,  by  a kind  of 
miraculous  intervention.  Another  miracle  ensued ; the  good  genius 
of  Consuelo  seemed  to  watch  over  her.  She  had  more  voice  than  she 
ever  had,  and  sung  with  more  mastery,  playing  at  the  same  time  with 
more  energy  and  passion  than  she  ha®  as  yet  done.  All  her  being 
itemed  to  be  exalted  to  the  highest  pitch, and  it  seemed  every  instant 
30 


COHBUBIOi 


411 

that,  like  too  tense  a chord,  she  was  about  to  snap.  A feverish 
ment,  however,  transported  her  to  a higher  sphere,  and  she  acted  aa 
If  she  were  in  a dream,  amazed  at  her  own  capacity. 

Whenever  she  feared  a failure,  a thought  of  happiness  revived  her. 
Albert  was  there,  beyond  doubt.  He  had  been  in  Vienna  since  the 
day  before,  beyond  any  doubt.  He  observed  and  watched  her  mo- 
tions. He  watched  over  her.  To  whom  else  could  she  attribute  the 
unforseen  aid  she  had  just  received,  and  the  almost  supernatural 
power  which  was  required  to  strike  down  the  Pandour,  Trenck,  the 
Sclavonian  Hercules?  What  if  from  one  of  the  whims  of  which  his 
character  offered  but  too  many  examples,  he  refused  to  speak  to  her, 
—if  he  seemed  to  wish  to  avoid  her,  it  was  not  on  account,  evidently, 
that  he  did  not  love  her  ardently.  Did  he  not  watch  and  protect  her 
anxiously,  and  defend  her  boldly? 

“ W ell  I ” said  Consuelo,  “ since  God  permits  my  power  not  to  de- 
sert me,  I wish  Albert  to  see  me  succeed  in  my  role , and  that  from 
some  corner  of  the  theatre,  where,  doubtless,  he  witnesses  a triumph 
for  which  I am  indebted  neither  to  a cabal  nor  to  Charlatanism.” 

Though  she  maintained  the  character  of  her  role , she  looked 
around  for  him.  It  was  in  vain,  however,  and  when  she  went  behind 
the  scenes,  she  yet  again  searched,  but  to  no  purpose.  “ Where  could 
he  be?  Where  did  he  hide  himself?  Had  he  killed  the  Pandour 
when  he  threw  him  over  the  stair- way?  Was  he  forced  to  conceal 
himself  to  avoid  pursuit?  Why  not  ask  Porpora  to  protect  him? 
Would  she  see  him  when  she  returned  to  the  embassy?  All  these 
annoyances  disappeared  when  she  went  on  the  stage.  She  forgot 
then,  as  if  by  some  magic  influence,  every  circumstance  of  real  life, 
and  experienced  only  a vague  anxiety  of  mingled  enthusiasm,  terror, 
gratitude  and  hope.  All  this  was  in  her  part,  and  was  exhibited  in 
admirable  accents  of  tenderness  and  truth. 

She  was  called  out  after  the  opera,  and  the  empress  threw  a bou- 
quet— to  which  was  attached  a present  of  considerable  value — to  her. 
The  court  and  the  people  followed  her  example,  and  there  was  a per- 
fect shower  of  flowers.  Amid  all  these  perfumed  offerings  Consuelo 
saw  fall  at  her  feet,  was  a green  branch,  to  which  her  eyes  became  in- 
voluntarily fastened.  As  soon  as  the  curtain  had  fallen,  she  picked  it 
up.  It  was  a cypress  branch.  She  forgot  all  the  offerings  made  to 
her  success,  to  contemplate  and  comment  on  this  funereal  emblem  of 
grief  and  dismay,  perhaps  the  token  of  an  adieu.  A violent  chill  suc- 
ceeded the  fever  of  emotion,  and  a cloud  passed  before  her  eyes. 
Her  strength  gave  way,  and  almost  fainting,  she  was  taken  to  the 
house  of  the  Venetian  ambassador.  She  yet  had  under  her  cloak  the 
cypress  bough,  which  had  exerted  so  terrible  an  influence  over  her. 

As  she  went  down  the  staircase  she  saw  no  stain  of  blood.  In  the 
cor./usion  of  the  departure  no  one  else  had.  While,  however,  she  was 
going  home,  absorbed  in  her  own  meditations,  a sad  scene  was  pass- 
ing with  closed  doors,  in  the  green-room.  Just  before  the  end  of  the 
spectacle,  the  scene-shifters  had  found  Baron  Trenck  at  the  foot  of 
the  staircase  perfectly  insensible,  and  covered  witfi  blood.  He  had 
been  taken  to  one  of  the  rooms,  and  to  avoid  confusion,  the  manager 
and  the  physician  of  the  thea'r  3,  and  also  the  police  had  been  sent 
for.  The  public  and  the  com]  any  then  left  the  building,  without 
being  aware  of  what  had  happened.  While  the  professional  people, 
the  emperial  oflicers,  and  some  kindly-disposed  persons  waited  to 
succor  the  Pandour,  Corilla,  who  was  waiting  her  lover’s  carriage 


O W S C B L O. 


488 


and  who  had  several  times  sent  her  maid  tc  enquire  — went  down 

alone,  notwithstanding  the  risk  of  being  forced  to  return  home  on 
foot  She  met  HQizbaiier,  who  was  aware  of  what  was  going  on  be- 
tween Trenck  and  herself,  and  who  took  her  to  the  green-room, 
wh&re  she  found  him  with  his  head  crush  ad  and  his  body  so  contusedj 
that  lie  could  not  move.  Her  sighs  were  loud  and  long;  and  Holz- 
baiieri  after  dismissing  all  useless  persons,  shut  the  doors.  The  singer 
could  say  or  think  of  nothing  which  would  throw  any  light  on  the 
affair.  At  last  Trenck  having  somewhat  revived,  said  that  he  had 
come  into  the  theatre  without  leave,  to  see  the  dancing  girls,  and  that 
being  anxious  to  leave,  he  had  proceeded  quickly  down  the  passage. 
Not  being  familiar,  however,  with  the  house,  he  had  stumbled  at  the 
top  of  the  narrow  stair- way  and  rolled  to  the  bottom.  All  were  satis- 
fied with  this  explanation,  and  he  was  taken  home,  where  Corilla 
nursed  him  so  zealously  that  she  lost  Prince  Kaunitz’  favor,  and  con- 
sequently her  majesty’s  good  will.  She,  however,  made  the  sacrifice ; 
and  Trenck,  the  iron  frame  of  whom  had  resisted  ruder  shocks  by  far, 
after  the  expiration  of  a week  was  able  to  come  out,  with  only  one 
more  scar  on  his  head.  He  told  no  one  of  his  mischance,  only  re- 
solving to  make  Consuelo  atone  dearly  for  it.  This  he  doubtless 
would  have  done,  had  not  an  order  for  his  arrest  tom  him  from  Co- 
rilla’s  arms  and  hurried  him  to  a military  prison,  before  he  had 
entirely  recovered  from  a fever  which  ensued  from  the  effects  of  his 
accident. 

What  rumor  had  vaguely  informed  the  canon  of  began  to  be  real- 
ized. The  Pandour’s  wealth  had  awakened  intense  hostility  against 
him  in  the  midst  of  many  influential  men.  He  was  a memorable  vic- 
tim. Accused  of  all  the  crimes  he  had  committed,  and  of  others  at- 
tributed to  him  by  interested  persons,  he  had  to  writhe  under  the  de- 
lays, the  vexations,  the  impudent  prevarications  and  injustices  of  a 
long  and  scandalous  trial.  We  will  leave  him  until  a new  order,  in 
prison,  where,  having  committed  some  infraction  of  the  police,  he 
was  chained  by  the  foot — disgracefully,  too,  for  the  government — by 
that  very  foot,  broken  by  a bomb  in  one  of  his  most  famous  exploits. 
After  undergoing  a most  terrible  operation,  before  his  health  was  fully 
re-established,  he  had  mounted  his  horse  to  resume  his  command 
Around  this  scar  an  iron  fetter  was  placed.  The  great  queen,  (whe 
had  not  been  offended  when  he  oppressed  and  lacerated  Bohemia,  a 
rampart  by  no  means  strong  enough  to  protect  her  from  the  enemy, 
on  account  of  old  national  enmity,)  Maria  Theresa,  no  longer  need- 
ing the  crimes  of  Trenck  and  his  Pandours  to  protect  her  throne, 
now  fancied  them  unpardonable,  and  was  thought  to  be  ignorant  of 
this  cruel  treatment — precisely  as  Frederick  was  supposed  to  be  igno- 
rant of  the  atrocity  and  torture,  borne  in  a dungeon,  loaded  with 
chains  weighing  sixty-eight  pounds,  by  another  Baron  Trenck,  who 
had  been  his  own  page  and  aide,  and  who  was  the  savior  of  Consuelo. 
The  flatterers  have  slightly  mentioned  these  atrocities,  or  attributed 
them  to  obscure  subaltern  officers,  as  a means  of  purifying  the  mem- 
ory of  their  masters.  These  sovereigns,  however,  were  not  ignorant 
as  they  would  be  thought ; but,  on  the  contrary,  knew  all  that  passed. 
Frederick,  himself,  furnished  the  design  of  Trenck’s  chains,  which 
that  gallant  man  wore  in  Magdeburg  for  nine  years;  and  if  Maria 
Theresa  did  not  precisely  order  the  Austrian  to  be  chained  by  his 
wounded  foot,  she  refused  to  listen  to  his  complaints,  and  was  insen- 
eiWe  to  all  he  said.  Besides,  from  the  scandalous  orgies  her  agent* 


CONSUELO, 


4*4 

tarried  on  with  the  wealth  of  the  fallen  Pandonr,  she  contrived  It 
•are  a portion,  which  she  refused  to  restore  to  his  heirs. 

Let  us  return  to  Consuelo ; for  it  is  the  duty  of  § writer  of  romance 
to  pass  rapidly  as  possible  over  historical  details.  When  she  learned 
what  had  befallen  the  Pandour,  she  forgot  the  outrages  with  which  he 
had  menaced  her;  and,  deeply  touched  by  his  misfortune,  aided  Cor* 
Ilia  in  sending  him  money  at  a time  when  the  means  of  softening  his 
captivity  were  refused  him.  Corilla,  ever  more  anxious  to  spend  than 
earn  money,  was  without  funds  when  an  emissary  of  her  lover  came 
to  ask  for  what  he  needed.  Consuelo  was  the  only  person  to  whom 
she  dared  apply;  and  the  latter  at  once  sold  the  present  which  the  em- 
press had  made  her  at  the  conclusion  of  Zenobia,  giving  the  proceeds 
to  her  companion,  whose  conduct  in  not  deserting  Trenck  now  that 
he  was  unfortunate,  she  fully  approved  of.  Corilla’s  zeal  and  courage 
in  assisting  her  lover,  inspired  Consuelo  to  regard  with  a kind  of  es- 
teem this  corrupted  creature,  who  was  not,  however,  absolutely  per- 
verse, yet  retaining  many  kind  emotions,  and  much  disinterested  feel- 
ing. Joseph  and  herself  had  much  conversation  about  this,  and  Con- 
suelo justified  herself  for  her  sympathy  to  her  own  satisfaction. 

Thus,  fifteen  days  passed  after  the  performance  of  Zenobia,  and 
the  adventure  of  Baron  Trenck.  The  six  representations  for  which 
she  had  been  engaged  were  passed,  and  Madame  Tesi  had  returned  to 
the  theatre.  The  empress,  through  the  ambassador,  Korner,  exerted 
a great  influence  over  Porpora,  and  made  Consuelo’s  marriage  with 
Haydn  the  condition  of  a permanent  engagement  in  the  Imperial 
Theatre,  after  the  expiration  of  that  of  la  Tesi.  Joseph  was  ignorant 
of  all  this,  and  Consuelo  had  no  suspicion  of  it.  She  thought  of 
nothing  except  the  absence  of  Albert,  and  the  fact  that  she  had  re- 
ceived no  news  of  him.  A thousand  suspicions  and  contradictory 
ideas  passed  through  her  mind,  from  the  effects  of  which  she  became 
much  excited.  She  had  not  left  her  room  since  the  cessation  of  her 
engagement;  and  looked  constantly  at  the  cypress-branch,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  taken  from  some  tomb  in  the  grotto  of  Schreek- 
enstein. 

Beppo,  the  only  friend  to  whom  she  could  speak  openly,  sought  at 
first  to  persuade  her  that  Albert  had  not  come  to  Vienna.  When, 
however,  she  showed  him  the  cypress-bough,  he  thought  over  all  this 
mystery,  and  concluded  that  the  young  count  had  something  to  do 
with  Trenck’s  mischance. 

“ I think,”  said  he,  “ that  I see  how  all  has  happened.  Albert 
came  to  Vienna,  saw,  and  heard  you;  he  has  observed  all  you  did, 
and  watched  your  every  step.  On  the  day  we  were  talking  on  the 
stage,  in  front  of  the  curtain,  representing  the  Araxes,  he  was  behind, 
and  heard  my  regret  at  seeing  you  borfle  from  the  theatre  at  the  very 
advent  of  your  glory.  You  uttered  some  exclamation  to  the  same  pur- 
pose, which  made  him  fancy  that  you  preferred  the  eclat  of  your 
career  to  the  solemn  sadness  of  his  love.  On  the  next  day,  he  saw 
yon  enter  Gorilla’s  room ; and  perhaps,  for  he  was  on  the  look-out, 
saw  the  Pandour  go  thither  previously.  His  delay  in  aiding  you, 

E roves  that  he  thought  you  had  gone  thither  willingly,  and,  after  he 
ad  fallen  a victim  to  the  temptations  of  eaves-dropping,  he  came  so 
opportunely  to  your  aid.” 

“ Well,”  said  Consuelo ; “ but  why  act  so  mysteriously  ? — why  wear 

fei©  mask  ? ” 

* You  know  what  the  Austrian  poll  se  is.  Perhaps  he  has  enemies 


GOKStJELO, 


486 


at  court,  or  had  political  reasons  for  concealment.  It  may  be  bb  face 
was  not  unknown  to  Trenck — who  knows,  if  during  the  recent  war 
he  may  not  have  seen  him  in  Bohemia,  and  offended  him,  or  protect- 
ed ! some  one  whom  he  wished  to  injure?  Count  Albert  may  have 
performed  bold  and  courageous  deeds,  while  all  fancied  he  slumbered 
at  Schrecken stein : at  all  events,  he  is  not  the  man  to  talk  of  himself, 
being  the  most  modest  and  innocent  of  men.  He  was  then  prudent 
jn  not  chastising  the  Pandour  with  his  face  bare : if  the  empress  to- 
day punishes  Trenck  for  having  devasted  Bohemia,  be  sure  she  will 
not  forgive  any  Bohemian,  who,  in  other  days,  resisted  the  Pandour.” 
“All  you  say  is  very  true,  Joseph,  and  makes  me  think;  now  a 
thousand  anxieties  fill  my  mind,  Albert  may  have  been  recognised  and 
arrested,  without  the  public  being  any  more  acquainted  with  the  fact 
than  with  Trenck’s  fall  down  the  stairway.  Alas ! he  may  now  be 
imprisoned  in  the  arsenal,  side  by  side  with  Trenck.  This  misfortune 
he  undergoes  fcr  me.” 

“ Be  calm — I do  not  think  this  is  the  case.  Albert  left  Vienna  at 
once,  and  you  will  soon  receive  a letter  from  him  at  Itiesenberg.,’ 

“ Have  you  a presentiment  to  that  effect  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I have.  If,  however,  you  wish  to  know  all,  I think  this  letter 
will  be  different  from  what  you  wish.  I am  satisfied,  that  far  from 
persisting  in  asking  from  a generous  friendship  the  sacrifice  of  your 
artistic  career,  he  has  abandoned  all  idea  of  marriage,  and  will  restore 
you  your  liberty.  If  he  is  intelligent,  noble,  and  just,  as  you  say  he 
is,  he  will  have  great  scruples  in  taking  you  from  the  theatre,  to  which 
you  are  passionately  devoted.  Do  not  deny  the  fact.  I saw  it;  and, 
after  hearing  Zenobia,  he  too  must.  He  will  then  regret  so  great  a 
sacrifice : if  he  did  not,  I would  not  respect  him.” 

“ But  read  his  last  note.  Here  it  is.  Did  he  not  say  he  would 
love  me  on  the  stage  as  well  as  in  any  other  position?  Could  he  not 
marry  me,  and  yet  leave  me  free  ? ” 

“ To  say  and  to  do, — to  think  and  to  be, — are  totally  different: 
when,  though  reality  is  before  us,  we  return  to  our  old  ideas.  I can 
never  think  that  a nobleman  can  see  his  wife  exposed  to  the  whims 
and  caprices  of  a partner.  When,  certainly  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  the  count  went  behind  the  scenes,  he  saw  in  Trench’s  conduct  a 
sad  exemplification  of  the  perils  of  theatrical  life.  He  withdrew  in 
despair,  perhaps,  but  perfectly  cured  of  his  passion  and  fancies.  Ex- 
cuse me  speaking  thus  to  you,  Consuelo,  but  Count  Albert’s  desertion 
to  you  is  a real  benefit.  You  will  one  day  see  it  yourself,  though  now 
your  eyes  are  filled  with  tears.  Be  just  then  to  him,  and  do  not  be 
humiliated  at  this  change.  When  he  said  he  had  no  objection  to  the 
theatre,  he  talked  of  an  ideal,  which  crumbled  at  the  touch  of  truth. 
He  saw,  that  in  taking  you  from  the  stage,  he  would  make  you  un- 
happy, or  that  if  he  accompanied  you,  he  would  be  so  himself.” 

“ xou  are  right,  Joseph;  I see  you  are.  The  humiliation  of  being 
deserted  and  neglected  does  not  trouble  me:  I regret  the  ideal  of  love 
I had  formed,  as  Albert,  perhaps,  had  of  the  stage.  He  has  now,  per- 
haps. seen  that  I could  not  keep  myself  worthy  of  him,  (at  least  in 
man’s  opinion,)  in  such  a profession.  I,  too,  am  forced  to  own,  that 
my  love  is  not  great  enough  to  overcome  every  obstacle  and  pre- 
judice.” 

“Be  just,  Consuelo,  and  do  not  ask  more  than  you  can  yield.  You 
did  not  love  deeply  enough  to  renounce  art  without  hesitation,  and 
do  not  complain  that  Count  Albert  could  break  with  the  world  wit> 

and  prostration.” 


499 


CONSTJEL©. 


* Great,  though,  as  was  my  secret  agony,  (I  will  now  own  It,)  I wafl 

ready  to  sacrifice  every  tiling  to  him.” 

“ Remember  he  was  passionate — not  you.  Ton  consented  with 
difficulty.  He  saw  well  that  you  were  about  to  immolate  yourself 
and  saw  that  he  had  a right  not  only  to  free  you  from  a love  you  had 
not  courted,  the  necessity  for  which  your  soul  did  not  recognise,  but 
that  his  conscience  required  him  to  do  so.” 

This  conclusion  satisfied  Consuelo  of  Albert’s  prudence  and  gen- 
erosity. She  was  afraid  if  she  abandoned  herself  to  grief,  she  yielded 
to  the  suggestions  of  wounded  pride;  and,  following  Joseph’s  sug- 
gestions, calmed  herself.  With  a whimsicality,  however,  not  unfre- 
quent in  the  human  heart,  she  no  sooner  saw  herself  free  to  follow 
her  theatrical  taste,  without  aught  to  distract  her,  than  she  became 
aware  of  her  isolation  in  that  corrupt  society,  and  became  terrified  at 
the  difficulties  which  appeared  before  her.  The  stage  is  a brilliant 
arena;  and,  when  once  on  it,  we  become  exalted,  and  all  the  ordinary 
emotions  of  life  seem  dull  and  tame  compared  with  it.  But,  when 
one  leaves  it,  exhausted  and  weary,  it  is  with  shuddering  fear  at  the 
ordeal  undergone,  and  a return  to  it  is  contradicted  by  fear.  I imag- 
ine the  acrobat  is  the  type  of  this  painful,  arduous,  and  terrible  life. 
He  must  experience  a nervous  pleasure  on  the  cords  and  ladders,  on 
which  he  performs  feats  beyond  human  power;  but,  when  he  has 
once  left  the  rope,  he  must  tremble  at  the  very  idea  of  ascending  it 
again,  and  braving  death  and  triumph,  the  two  faces  of  the  spectre 
ever  "before  him. 

Then  the  Giants’  Castle,  hitherto  an  object  of  terror,  and  a perpet- 
ual nightmare,  seemed  to  Consuelo,  through  the  veil  of  her  exile,  a 
paradise  lost,  a sojourn  of  peace  and  candor,  ever  holy  and  venerable. 
She  bound  the  cypress-bough,  the  last  relique  of  the  Hussite  cavern, 
to  the  foot  of  her  mother’s  crucifix,  and  uniting  these  two  emblems 
'of  Catholicism  and  heresy,  exalted  her  heart  to  the  idea  of  the  sole 
eternal  and  absolute  religion.  There  she  poured  all  the  sentiment  of 
resignation  to  personal  ills,  and  faith  in  the  providential  designs  of 
God  and  Albert,  seeing  that  henceforth  she  must  journey  through  life 
alone,  and  without  a guide 


CHAPTER  XCYIL 

Oxe  morning,  Porpora  sent  for  her  earlier  than  usual,  and  she 
found  the  maestro  perfectly  happy,  with  a letter  in  one  hand  and  his 
spectacles  in  the  other.  Consuelo  trembled  in  every  limb,  imagining 
that  at  last  an  answer  was  come  from  Riesenberg.  She  was,  how- 
ever, soon  undeceived,  the  letter  being  from  Hubert,  the  Porporino. 
This  famous  singer  told  the  maostro  that  the  engagement  of  Consu- 
elo was  determined  on,  and  he  sent  a contract  signed  by  Baron  Poel- 
nitz,  director  of  the  Theatre-Royal  of  Berlin,  which  needed  only  the 
signature  of  Porpora  and  of  Consuelo.  The  baron  had  also  written 
a very  flattering  letter  which  invited  Porpora  to  contend  for  the  mu- 
sical control  of  the  Royal  Chapel,  and  to  produce  as  many  operas  and 
fugues  as  he  wished,  by  means  of  which  he  might  prove  his  capacity. 
Porporino  was  delighted  at  the  idea  of  being  abl©  to  sing  so  soon  after 


CON8UELO. 


48t 


bit  own  heart,  with  a musical  sister,  and  besought  tne  maestro  at  ono* 
to  leave  Vienna,  for  Sans  Souci , the  delicious  home  of  Frederic  the 
Great. 

This  letter  delighted  Porpora,  yet  it  filled  him  with  tucertainty. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Fortune  was  about  to  smooth  her  angry  brow, 
and  that  from  two  quarters  royal  favor  (then  so  necessary  to  artistes,) 
offered  him  brilliant  prospects.  Frederic  invited  him  to  Berlin-.*  at 
Vienna,  Maria  Theresa  made  brilliant  promises.  Consuelo,  in  both 
instances  was  the  instrument  of  his  success ; for  at  Berlin  she  best 
could  exhibit  his  compositions — at  Vienna  she  could  provide  for  him 
by  marrying  Joseph  Haydn. 

The  time  had  then  come,  when  his  fate  was  in  the  hands  of  his 
adopted  daughter.  He  asked  her  to  marry  or  go  with  him,  as  she 
chose;  and,  under  the  circumstances,  was  far  less  urgent  that  she 
should  marry  Joseph  Haydn  than  he  otherwise  would  have  done.  He 
was  a little  weary  of  Vienna,  and  the  idea  of  being  feted  and  caressed 
by  the  empress’s  enemy,  seemed  a little  revenge — the  effect  of  which 
at  the  Austrian  court*  he  probably  exaggerated.  At  all  events,  as 
Consuelo  spoke  no  more  of  Albert,  he  preferred  the  idea  of  her  not 
marrying  at  all. 

Consuelo  soon  put  an  end  to  all  his  doubts,  by  saying  that,  for  many 
reasons,  she  would  not  marry  Joseph  Haydn  at  all.  The  first  was, 
that  he  had  never  courted  her,  and  was  engaged  to  the  daughter  of 
his  benefactor,  Anna  Keller. 

“ Then,”  said  Porpora,  “ there  is  no  choice.  Here  is  a contract  for 
your  engagement  at  Berlin : sign,  and  let  us  prepare  to  go,  for  there 
is  no  hope  for  you  here,  unless  you  submit  to  the  empress’s  matrimo - 
mo-mania.  That  is  the  price  of  her  protection,  and  a positive  refusal 
will  make  us  seem  to  her  worse  than  devils.” 

“ My  dear  maestro,”  said  Consuelo,  with  more  nrmness  than  she 
had  ever  yet  exhibited  to  Porpora,  “ I am  ready  to  obey  you  as  soon 
as  I am  satisfied  about  one  important  matter.  There  exist  ceitain  re- 
lations of  esteem  and  respect  between  the  Count  of  Rodolstadt  and 
myself ; I will  not  deny  it,  in  spite  of  all  your  sneers  and  laughter.  I 
have  since  we  separated  kept  myself  free  from  every  engagement  in- 
compatible with  this  marriage.  After  a letter,  however,  which  I wrote 
him,  six  weeks  ago,  things  have  happened  which  induce  me  to  think 
the  Rudolstadt  family  have  given  me  up.  Every  day  that  passes  in- 
duces me  to  think  this  is  the  case,  that  I have  been  released  and  am 
free  to  consecrate  all  my  care  and  toil  to  you ; and  I accept  such  a 
career  without  any  hesitation.  Yet,  after  the  letter  I have  written,  I 
cannot  be  at  ease  until  I receive  an  answer.  I expect  it  every  day, 
and  it  must  come  soon.  Postpone  the  signing  of  the  contract  until 
after ” 

“ My  poor  child,”  said  Porpora,  who  as  soon  as  she  began  to  speak, 
prepared  to  discharge  the  guns  he  had  long  kept  loaded ; “ the  answer 
you  look  for  was  sent  to  me  a month  ago.” 

“ And  you  did  not  show  it  to  me  ? You  left  me  in  this  terrible  un- 
certainty ? Maestro,  you  are  a strange  man.  What  confidence  c**1 1 
have  in  you,  if  you  treat  me  thus— if  yju  deceive  me?  ” 

“ Sow  did  I ? The  letter  was  written  to  me,  and  I was  enjoinet* 
not  to  show  it  to  you  until  I saw  you  had  recovered  from  your  niad 
passion,  and  disposed  to  be  reasonable  and  prudent.” 

“Did  he  write  thus?”  said  Consuelo,  blushiog.  “ It  is  impossible 
that  either  Count  Christian  or  Count  4Ib®Tt  1 ave  thus  spoken  of  sc 
pure  and  calm  an  affection  as 


488 


CON  SUE  LO, 


u Words  mean  nothing,”  said  Porpora.  * Man  of  tfre  world  always 
me  big  words,  and  we  must  understand  them.  As  the  old  count  was 
not  anxious  to  have  a daughter  on  the  stage,  as  soon  as  he  knew  yoa 
were  here,  he  made  his  son  abandon  all  idea  of  the  marriage.  Albert 
found  good  reason  for  doing  what  he  has  done,  I assure  you.  I see 
with  pleasure  that  you  are  not  angry.  That  is  all  as  it  should  be 
and  we  will  be  off  for  Prussia.”  $ 

“ Maestro,  show  me  the  letter,  and  I will  sign  the  contract  at  once." 
“ Why  ask  to  see  the  letter  ? There  are  certain  follies  we  must  for- 
give in  others,  and  in  ourselves  forget.” 

“We  cannot  forget  what  we  choose.  Reflection  aids  and  causes 
help  us  not  to  do  so.  If  I have  been  repelled  from  Rudolstadt  with 
disdain,  I will  soon  be  consoled.  If  I am  restored  to  liberty,  with 
esteem  and  affection,  I will  be  consoled  with  less  difficulty.  Show  me 
the  letter.  What  are  you  afraid  of ; for,  one  way  or  the  other,  I shall 
certainly  obey.” 

“ Well,  I will,  said  the  ill-tempered  maestro,  opening  his  secretary 
and  pretending  to  look  for  the  letter.  He  searched  every  drawer, 
moved  all  his  papers,  and  the  letter  (which  had  never  existed)  coukl 
not  be  found.  He  pretended  to  grow  impatient,  while  Consuelo  really 
was  so.  She  set  about  looking  for  it ; overturned  his  drawers  and 
papers.  No  letter.  Porpora  sought  to  remember  it,  and  to  impro- 
vise a polite  and  civil  epistle.  Consuelo  could  not  suspect  Porpora  of 
so  wholesale  a misrepresentation. 

For  the  honor  of  the  maestro,  we  must  imagine  that  he  got  out  of 
the  affair  very  badly,  and  Consuelo  fancied  that  in  a moment  of  ab- 
straction he  had  lighted  his  pipe  with  the  letter ; and  after  having  re- 
tired to  her  room  to  pray,  and  to  swear  on  the  cypress  bough  eternal 
friendship  to  Albert,  she  returned  tranquilly  to  sign  an  engagement 
to  begin  at  the  termination  of  the  present  one.  This  time  was  more 
than  necessary  for  the  completion  of  the  preparations  for  her  depart- 
ure and  journey.  When  Porpora  saw  the  contract  complete,  he  kiss- 
ed Consuelo,  and  saluted  her  formally  by  her  title  of  artiste . 

“ This,”  said  he,  “ is  your  day  of  confirmation,  and  were  it  in  my 
power  to  force  you  to  make  a vow,  I would  insist  on  your  renuncia- 
tion of  love  and  marriage.  You  are  now  a priestess  of  the  goddess 
ITarmonia;  the  muses  are  virgins,  and  she  who  consecrates  herself  to 
Apollo  should  take  the  vestal  vow.” 

“ I will  not  promise  not  to  marry,”  said  Consuelo,  “ though  just 
now  it  seems  to  me  it  would  be  easy  to  do  so.  I may,  however, 
change  my  mind,  and  might  repent  of  a promise  I could  not  break.” 
“You  are  then  a slave  of  your  word.  Yes,  it  seems  to  me  in  that 
respect  you  differ  from  all  the  human  race.  If  you  made  a solemn 
promise,  you  would  keep  it.” 

“ Master,  I think  I have  proved  this.  All  my  life  I have  been  un- 
der the  influence  of  some  vow.  My  mother  set  me  an  example  of 
this  kind  of  religion,  which  she  pushed  almost  to  absurdity.  When 
we  travelled  together,  and  drew  near  a large  city,  she  would  say, 

1 Consuelo,  if  I do  well  here,  I call  you  to  witness  that  I go  barefooted 
and  pray  for  two  hours  in  the  holiest  chapel  of  the  country.’  When, 
poor  soul,  she  hired  well— that  is  to  say,  when  she  earned  a few 
crowns  by  her  songs — she  always  kept  her  vow,  without  regard  to 
weather  or  distance.  This  was  not  a very  enlightened  or  sublime  de- 
votion ; but  I look  on  these  vows  as  holy.  When  on  her  death-bed 
my  mother  made  me  swear  never  to  be  Anzoleto's,  except  in  legiti 


(JOK8UKL0. 


481 


mate  marriage,  ibe  knew  that  she  could  confide  in  mv  oath,  and 
died  in  peace.  Subsequently,  I promised  Albert  to  think  of  no  one 
else,  and  to  do  all  I cou1  i to  love  him.  I did  not  violate  my  promise, 
and  had  he  not  released  me,  I could  have  been  faithful  all  my  life.” 

“ Have  done  with  your  Count  Albert,  for  you  should  not  think  of 
him.  If  you  must  be  under  the  influence  of  some  vow,  tell  me  how 
you  will  engage  yourself  to  me  ? ” 

“ Maestro,  confide  in  my  reason,  in  my  devotion  to  you.  Ask  me 
for  no  oath,  for  you  would  thus  lay  a terrible  burden  on  me.  The 
fear  of  violating  it  destroys  all  pleasure  in  acting  and  in  thinking 
rightly.” 

“ I do  not  like  that,”  said  Porpora,  half  in  earnest.  “ I see  you  have 
made  vows  to  every  one  but  me.  Let  us  talk,  however,  of  the  one 
you  made  to  your  mother.  It  was  of  infinite  service  to  you,  my  poor 
child,  and  without  it  you  would  perhaps  have  been  enamored  of  that 
infamous  Anzoleto.  But,  subsequently,  without  love,  and  from  pure 
goodness  of  heart,  you  made  important  promises  to  Rudolstadt,  who 
was  almost  a stranger,  and  I shall  think  it  very  hard,  if,  on  a day  like 
this,  made  famous  by  your  restoration  to  liberty  and  art,  you  will  make 
no  vow  to  your  own  professor — to  your  best  friend.” 
u Yes;  my  best  friend  .and  benefactor,  my  aid  and  my  father,”  said 
Coneuelo,  casting  herself  into  Porpora’s  arms,  who  was  so  sparing  of 
his  kind  words  that  twice  or  thrice  only  had  he  permitted  his  heart 
to  exhibit  any  paternal  love ; “ I can  unhesitatingly  vow  to  devote 
myself  to  your  glory  and  fame,  so  long  as  my  life  lasts.” 

“ My  happiness,”  said  Porpora,  clasping  her  to  his  heart,  “ is  in  my 
fame.  I know  no  other.  I am  not  one  of  those  German  dolts  who 
dream  of  no  other  happiness  than  to  have  a daughter  to  feel  their 
pulses  or  warm  their  gruel.  I want  neither:  If  I did,  I would  not 
consent  for  you  to  sacrifice  your  time  to  me.  You  sacrifice  too  much 
already.  This  is  not  what  I need.  I require  you  to  be  only  an  artist 
—a  great  artist.  Will  you  be  — will  you  combat  this  languor,  this 
Irresolution,  this  feeling  of  disgust  you  had  at  first?  Will  you  reject 
the  compliments  of  the  fine  gentlemen  who  run  after  actresses,  some 
because  they  think  them  good  housewives,  and  abandon  them  as  soon 
as  they  find  out  the  contrary ; and  others,  because,  having  lost  their 
fortunes,  they  find  it  very  comfortable  to  keep  a coach  and  table  at 
the  expense  of  their  better  halves;  and,  on  that  account,  willing  to 
forget  the  estimation  in  which  the  public  holds  marriages  of  this  kind. 
Will  you  promise  to  suffer  no  little  tenor,  with  a smooth  voice  and 
graceful  curls,  to  turn  your  head,  as  that  Anzoleto  did,  who  has  no 
grace  except  in  his  legs,  and  no  success  but  from  hisdmpudence?  ” 

“ I promise  and  swear  to  all  this,”  said  Consuelo,  laughing  at  the 
simplicity  of  Porpora’s  strong  exhortation.  “ I will  do  more — I will 
swear  that  you  shall  never  have  to  complain  that  I have  been  ungrate- 
ful, as  long  as  I may  live.”  # 

“ Ah,  that  is  more  than  I dare  to  ask.  It  is  too  much  for  human 
nature  to  promise.  When  you  are  a great  singer,  and  known  over  aL 
Europe,  you  will  be  vain  and  ambitious,  for  such  every  great  artist 
must  be.  You  will  insist  at  all  risks  on  success.  You  will  not  strive 
patiently  for  it,  or  endanger  it  by  fidelity  to  friendship  or  the  worship 
of  the  beautiful.  You  will  act  like  others,  and  sing  popular  music 
without  regard  to  the  bad  taste  of  the  people  and  court.  You  will 
tuoceed  and  be  great  in  spite  of  all  that,  without  which  you  canno* 
pitas*  the  masses.  If  you  will  think  carefully,  when  you  sing  before 


490 


CONSUELO. 


a few  old  fellows  like  myself, — the  great  Handel  or  old  Bach—  /om  wil 
bo  a credit  to  Porpora  and  yourself.  I ask  and  hope  nothing  more. 
You  see  your  father  is  not  an  egotist,  as  some  of  your  flatterers  ray  1 
am.  I ask  of  you  nothing  that  does  not  advance  your  fame  and 
glory.” 

“lam  careless,”  said  Consuelo,  “ of  what  merely  redounds  to  my 
own  glory.  I can  suffer  myself  to  be  carried  away  by  the  involuntary 
intoxication  of  success ; but  I cannot  think  coldly  of  a whole  life  of 
triumph,  and  then  crown  myself.  I wish  glory  for  you,  maestro. 
Notwithstanding  your  incredulity,  I wish  you  to  see  Consuelo  lives 
for  you  alone ; and  to  satisfy  you  that  you  have  calumniated  me,  I 
make  a promise  to  you  beforehand.” 

“ And  on  what  do  you  make  that- vow?  ” said  Porpora,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  mingled  confidence  and  distrust. 

They  wrere  interrupted  by  Count  Hoditz,  whom  a grand  heyduc  an- 
nounced. The  servant  asked  permission  for  his  master  to  pay  his  re- 
spects to  Porpora  and  his  pupil,  and  looked  at  the  latter  with  an  ex- 
pression which  surprised  her,  who  remembered  that  she  had  some- 
where seen  his  strange  though  handsome  face.  The  Count  was  ad- 
mitted, and  made  known  his  wishes  in  the  most  courteous  terms.  He 
was  about  to  go  to  his  estate  at  Roswald,  in  Moravia,  and,  wishing  to 
make  it  pleasant  to  the  margravine,  his  wife,  intended  to  surprise  her 
by  a magnificent  festival.  He  wished  Consuelo  to  sing  three  evenings 
at  Roswald,  and  requested  Porpora  to  superintend  the  spectacles,  con- 
certs, and  serenades. 

Porpora  told  him  of  his  engagements  at  Berlin,  the  contract  for 
which  Hoditz  wished  to  see.  This  enabled  the  nobleman  to  give 
some  good  advice,  and  led  to  his  urging  Porpora  in  yet  stronger  terms 
to  accept  the  offer.  “ You  can,”  said  he,  “ make  your  preparations 
in  three  days,  and  go  to  Berlin  through  Moraviav  It  is  not  exactly 
the  road ; but,  instead  of  your  journeying  slowly  through  Bohemia, 
scarcely  yet  recovered  from  the  devastation  of  war,  you  can  travel 
more  quickly  to  Roswald  in  a carriage.  I will  place  at  your  dis- 
posal— ” 

[This  meant  that  they  should  travel  at  the  Count’s  expense.] 

He  then  promised  to  send  them  to  Pardubitz,  in  case  they  wished 
to  go  down  the  Elbe  to  Dresden,  or  to  Chrudim,  if  they  wished  to  go 
by  Prague.  The  facilities  he  offered  really  would  shorten  the  journey 
most  of  the  way,  and  the  round  sum  he  offered  enabled  them  to  make 
the  rest  of  it  more  comfortable.  Porpora  accepted  the  offer,  in  spite 
of  the  look  of  Consuelo  to  dissuade  him.  The  bargain  was  made, 
and  the  last  day  of  the  week  appointed  for  setting  out. 

When  he  had  kissed  her  hand  respectfully,  Hoditz  left  Consuelo 
with  her  maestro,  who  reproached  him  with  having  been  so  easily 
won. — Though  she  had  no  longer  to  bear  the  count’s  impertinences, 
she  was  yet  a little  angry  with  him,  and  did  not,  willingly,  go  to  his 
house.  She  did  not  wish  to  tell  Porpora  what  had  happened  at  Pas- 
sau,  but  reminded  him  jf  what  he  had  said  about  the  musical  inven- 
tions of  Count  Hoditz. 

u Do  you  not  see,”  said  she,  “ that  I shall  have  to  sing  his  music, 
and  you  will  be  forced  seriously  to  conduct  operas  and  cantatas  in  his 
style.  Is  this  the  way  you  wish  me  to  keep  my  vow,  to  remain  faith- 
ful to  the  worship  of  the  beautiful.?  ” 

“ Enough!”  said  Porpora,  with  a smile;  “I  will  not  be  so  stern  as 
you  think  I am.  I expect,  however,  to  amuse  myself  withe  ut  my  lord 


C0N3UEL0. 


491 


ra  haring  any  suspicion  of  the  matter.  To  do  such  things  seriously,  be- 
fore a respectable  public,  would  be  blasphemy  and  disgraceful.  One 
may  amuse  one’s  self,  however;  and  an  artist  while  earning  his  bread 
would  be  very  unfortunate,  if  he  could  not  laugh  at  those  who  enable 
him  to  obtain  it.  You  will  also  see  the  Princess  of  Culmbach,  who  it 
a very  charming  personage — she  will  laugh  with  us,  though  she  rarely 
ventures' to  laugh  at  her  father  in  his  music.” 

She  had  to  yield — make  up  her  bundles,  and  bid  all  good-bye, 
Joseph  was  in  despair.  Just  then,  however,  a great  piece  of  good  for- 
tune happened  to  him,  which,  if  it  did  not  atone,  averted  his  attention 
from  the  pain  of  the  separation.  While  playing  his  serenade  beneath 
the  window  of  Bernardoni,  the  clown,  the  famous  harlequin  of  the 
theatre  of  the  Corinthian  gate — that  amiable  artist  had  been  stricken 
with  the  power  of  his  music.  Bernardoni  sent  for  him,  made  him 
come  up  stairs,  and  asked  who  was  the  composer  of  this  sympathetic 
and  original  music.  He  was  amazed  at  his  power  and  talent,  and 
gave  him,  before  they  parted,  the  words  of  a ballet  called  Le  Diable 
Boiteux , the  music  of  which  he  had  begun  to  write.  He  wTas  in  the 
midst  of  the  tempest,  which  gave  him  such  trouble  that  when  he  was 
eighty  years  of  age  Haydn  continued  to  laugh  at  it.  Consuelo  sought 
to  amuse  him,  by  speaking  of  the  tempest  which  Bernardoni  wished 
to  be  .terrible,  and  which  Beppo,  who  never  had  seen  the  sea,  could 
not  describe.  Consuelo  described  the  Adriatic  to  him,  and  sought  to 
make  him  understand  the  motion  of  the  waves — not,  however,  with- 
out laughing  with  him  at  the  effect  of  her  imitative  harmony,  aided 
by  blue  cloths,  shaken  up  and  down  by  men  standing  at  the  flies. 

“ listen  to  me,”  said  Porpora;  “you  may  try  for  a hundred  years 
with  the  sublimest  instruments  and  the  most  perfect  knowledge  of  the 
motion  of  the  winds  and  waves,  before  you  can  at  all  represent  the 
harmony  of  nature.  This  is  not  a fit  object  for  music,  which  goes 
astray  when  it  seeks  for  power  and  sonorousness.  It  has  a wider 
field.  All  emotion  is  its  domain.  Its  object  is  inspiration,  and  its 
origin  also  is  inspired.  Imagine,  then,  the  impressions  of  a man 
abandoned  to  this  torment — a danger  awful,  terrible,  and  imminent. 
Let  a musician  place  himself— that  is,  let  a human  vibrating,  living 
soul  be  fixed  amid  this  distress  and  disorder — this  desertion  and  de- 
spair— give  vent  to  his  sorrow,  and  the  audience,  whether  it  respond 
to  it  or  not,  will  participate  in  this.  It  will  fancy  that  it  hears  the  sea, 
the  crushing  of  ships,  the  cry  of  the  sailors,  and  the  despair  of  the 
passengers  I What  would  you  say  of  a poet  who,  in  describing  a bat- 
tle said,  that  the  canon  said  boom , boom , and  the  drums  plan,  plan  f 
Yet  this  would  be  an  exact  harmonic  imitation.  It  would  not,  how* 
ever,  be  poetry.  Painting,  the  descriptive  art  par  excellence , is  not  a 
mere  servile  imitation.  In  vain  would  the  artist  paint  the  sea  green, 
the  stormy  sky  black,  and  the  ship  wrecked.  If  he  be  unable  to  de- 
scribe terror  and  the  tout  ensemble , his  picture  will  be  colorless, 
though  brilliant  as  the  sign  of  a beer-cellar.  Fill  yourself,  young 
man,  therefore,  with  the  idea  of  a great  disaster;  in  that  way  you  will 
excite  others.” 

Thus  paternally  he  spoke,  while  the  carriage  was  being  harnessed 
in  the  yard,  and  the  trunks  were  being  fastened  on.  Joseph  listened 
to  his  instructions  with  attention,  drinking  them — so  to  say — at  the 
very  fountain  head.  When,  however,  Consuelo,  in  her  cloak  and  fur- 
red bonnet,  came  to  him  and  clasped  his  neck,  he  grew  pale,  stifled  a 
ery,  and  unable  to  see  her  get  into  the  arriage,  went  into  Keller’s 


493 


CONST?  XIO. 


back  shop  to  hide  his  tears.  Metastasio  conceived  an  affection  for  hh% 
and  taught  him  Italian  perfectly,  thus  consoling  him  by  good  advice 
and  generous  services  for  Porpora’s  absence.  Joseph,  however,  was 
long  sad  and  unhappy,  before  he  became  used  to  Consuelo’s  absence. 

Consuelo,  too  was  sad,  and  was  sorry  to  lose  so  kind  and  estimable 
a friend.  She  felt,  nevertheless,  her  courage  revive,  and  became  again 
awake  to  all  the  poetry  of  her  impressions,  as  she  went  among  the 
mountains  of  Moravia.  A new  sun  arose  to  her.  Separated  from 
every  tie  and  every  influence  opposed  to  art,  she  seemed  to  belong 
entirely  to  it. 

Porpora,  restored  to  hope  and  to  the  enjoyment  of  youth,  frequently 
gave  vent  to  the  most  noble  declamations;  and  the  true-hearted  girl, 
though  she  continued  to  love  Albert  and  Joseph  as  two  brothers  she 
would  meet  in  heaven,  felt  happy  as  a sky  lark,  whose  notes  grow 
more  brilliant  as  it  approaches  heaven. 


CHAPTER  XCYHL 

At  the  second  relay,  Consuelo  recognised  in  the  servant  who  ac- 
companied her,  and  who  sat  on  the  seat  of  the  coach,  paid  the 
guides  and  reproved  the  postilions  when  they  went  too  slowly,  the 
same  heyduc  who  had  announced  Count  Hoditz,  on  the  day  he  came 
to  propose  the  pleasure  party  to  Roswald.  He  was  a tall,  stalwart  fel- 
low, who  seemed  ever  and  anon  to  look  at  her,  and  seemed  divided 
between  a desire  and  fear  to  speak  to  her.  One  morning  when  she 
breakfasted  in  an  isolated  inn  at  the  foot  of  a mountain-^-Porpora 
having  gone  out  to  walk  in  search  of  some  musical  idea — she  turned 
to  the  valet,  and  looked  at  him  for  a moment  in  a stern  and  irritated 
manner.  He  then,  however,  looked  so  pitifully  at  her,  that  she  could 
not  refrain  from Jaughing.  The  April  sun  shone  on  the  snow  which 
yet  crowned  the  mountains,  and  Consuelo  was  in  an  excellent  humor. 

“ Alas  I ” said  the  mysterious  heyduc ; “ your  ladyship  at  last  recog- 
nises me.  I have  never  forgotten  you,  even  if  you  had  been  disguised 
as  a Turk,  or  a Prussian  corporal.  Yet  I never  saw  you  but  for  a mo- 
ment What  a moment,  though,  that  was ! ” 

As  he  spoke,  he  placed  on  the  table  the  plate  he  brought,  and  mak- 
ing the  sign  of  the  cross,  knelt. 

“ Ah  1 ” said  Consuelo,  “ Karl,  the  deserter  ? 99 

“ Yes,  signora,”  said  the  heyduc,  kissing  her  hand;  44  so  they  tell 
me  I must  call  you ; though  for  my  part  I am  not  sure  whether  you 
are  a gentleman  or  a lady.” 

44  Indeed?  and  why  do  you  doubt?  ” 

44 1 have  seen  you  dressed  as  a boy,  and  though  I knew  you,  there 
was  as  much  likeness  to  you  in  woman’s  dress  as  when  I first  saw 
you.  All  this,  however,  means  nothing.  Be  what  you  please,  you 
have  done  me  services  which  I shall  never  forget;  and  were  you  to 
order  me  to  throw  myself  from  the  summit  of  the  peak  above  us,  I 
would  not  refuse  to  obey.” 

44  I ask  nothing  from  you,  my  good  Karl,  except  to  be  happy  and 
enjoy  your  liberty.  Now  you  are  free,  and  I think  you  enjoy  life.” 

“Free!  yes;”  said  Karl,  shaking  his  head,  “but  happy-ndaa!  I 
mm  lost  my  wife.” 


(iOMSUSLO.  491 

Consuelo’s  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  for  she  sympathised  with 

Karl,  as  she  saw  his  cheeks  completely  distorted  bj  sorrow. 

**  Ah  1 ” said  he,  slaking  his  moustache,  over  which  the  tears  drop** 
ped  like  dew  from  a bush ; “ she  had  suffered  too  much.  Her  dis- 
tress when  she  saw  me  a second  time  carried  away  by  the  Prussians 
—a  long  journey  when  she  was  in  bad  health,  and  her  joy  at  seeing 
me  again — all  caused  such  a transition,  that  she  died  eight  days  after 
I came  to  Vienna,  and  where,  thanks  to  a billet  from  you,  she  found 
me  again.  Count  Hoditz  was  of  no  use,  however,  for  she  was  now  ut- 
terly exhausted,  and  found  repose  only  in  the  bosom  of  her  God.” 

“ And  your  daughter  ? ” said  Consuelo,  who  sought  to  make  him 
happy. 

“ My  daughter,”  said  he,  half  amazed,  “ the  King  of  Prussia  killed 
her  too.” 

“How?  what?” 

“ Did  not  King  Frederick  kill  the  mother  by  producing  all  this  sor- 
row? Well,  the  child  followed  the  mother.  Since  that  time,  having 
seen  me  wounded  and  carried  away  by  the  recruiting  sergeants,  both 
lay  asleep,  and  almost  dead  in  the  road,  the  young  one  yet  troubled 
with  fever,  and  fatigue  and  weariness  famished  them.  When  you  met 
them  on  the  bridge  at  the  suburbs  of  I know  not  what  Austrian  city, 
she  had  eaten  nothing  for  two  days.  You  gave  them  money,  and  told 
them  that  I had  been  saved.  You  did  all  you  could  to  console  and 
care  for  them.  They  told  me  all  about  it.  From  the  time  we  met 
until  they  were  buried,  they  grew  every  day  worse.  Scarcely  had  my 
wife  died  when  I had  to  open  her  grave  to  bury  my  daughter.  Now, 
thanks  to  the  King  of  Prussia,  Karl  is  alone  in  the  world.” 

“ No,  Karl,  you  are  not  alone ; you  have  many  friends  who  yet  have 
an  interest  in  you  and  your  misfortunes.” 

“ Yes,  I know  all  that.  There  are  many  kind  persons,  like  yourself! 
But  of  what  use  are  they  to  me,  now  that  my  wife  and  child  are 
gone  ? I have  now  neither  home  nor  country,  my  mountain  being 
too  well  known  to  the  brigands,  who  have  come  twice  to  look  for  me. 
As  soon  as  I was  alone,  I asked  if  we  were  at  war,  or  if  we  would  be 
soon ; for  I had  but  one  idea,  that  of  serving  against  Prussia,  and  of 
killing  as  many  Prussians  as  I could.  Ah,  Saint  Winceslas,  the  patron 
saint  of  Bohemia,  would  have  guided  my  arm ; and  I am  sure  no  shot 
I fired  would  have  been  lost.  I heard,  though,  that  there  would  be  a 
long  peace ; and  then  I had  no  care  for  anything.  I went  to  thank 
Count  Hoditz  for  his  kindness,  and  asked  him  to  present  me  to  the 
empress,  as  he  had  intended.  I wished  to  kill  myself;  he,  however, 
was  kind  to  me,  and  the  Princess  of  Culmbach,  his  daughter-in-law, 
to  whom  he  had  told  all  my  story,  spoke  kindly  to  me  about  my 
duties  as  a Christian,  and  I consented  to  live  and  enter  their  service, 
where,  to  tell  the  truth,  I am  too  well  fed  and  nourished  for  what  I 
have  done.” 

* Now,  tell  me,  Karl,  how  you  came  to  know  me  ? ” 

“ Did  you  not  sing  one  night  at  the  house  of  my  new  mistress,  the 
margravine?  I saw  you  pass,  all  dressed  in  white,  and  knew  you  at 
once  in  spite  of  your  female  dress.  You  see  I do  not  know  or  remem- 
ber many  of  the  places  through  which  I have  gone,  nor  the  persons  I 
have  met,  but  I never  forget  faces  I began  to  make  the  sign  of  the 
cross  when  I saw  a young  man  with  you,  Joseph  Haydn.  So  far 
from  being  your  master,  a9  he  seemed  to  be  at  the  time  of  my  deliv- 
erance (for  then  he  was  better  dressed  than  you,)  he  had  become 


eOKSUKL©. 


m 

your  servant,  and  remained  in  the  antechambei  He  did  not  knot* 

me ; and  though  the  count  had  forbidden  me  to  say  one  word  about 
what  had  happened,  (I  never  asked  why,)  I did  not  say  a word  to  Jo- 
seph, though  I felt  as  if  I could  have  hugged  him.  He  went  almost 
immediately  into  the  other  room.  I had  orders  not  to  leave  the  one 
In  which  I was,  and  a good  servant  knows  nothing  but  his  orders. 
When  every  one,  though,  had  gone,  the  valet  de  chambre  of  monseig- 
neur, who  is  in  his  confidence,  said:  ‘ Karl,  you  did  not  speak  to  that 
servant  of  Porpora,  though  you  recognised  him.  The  count  will  be 
glad  of  it.  As  for  the  young  lady  who  sang  to-night’ — Ah ! I knew 
her  too,  and  said  nothing. — ‘ Well,’  said  he,  ‘ you  were  right  there,  too. 
The  count  wishes  no  one  to  know  anything  about  his  trip  to  Passau.’ 
That  is  nothing  to  me,’  said  I;  ‘ but  may  I ask  how  it  was  that  she 
rescued  me  from  the  Prussians?  Henri  told  me  how  all  passed,  (for 
he  was  there,)  and  how,  when  you  had  no  reason  to  be  alarmed  for 
yourself,  you  insisted  on  his  coming  to  ray  aid.  You  said  something 
to  my  poor  wife,  and  she  told  me  all  about  it.  For  when  she  died, 
she  prayed  that  God  might  have  mercy  on  you.  When  I saw  Joseph 
in  your  service,  having  been  charged  to  take  him  money  from  mon- 
seigneur, at  the  house  of  whom  he  had  played  a few  days  before  on 
the  violin,  I put  in  the  paper  several  ducats,  the  first  I had  gained  in 
my  present  service.  He  did  not  know  it,  and  did  not  know  me.  If 
we  ever  return  to  Vienna,  I will  contrive  that  he  shall  never  be  In 
trouble  as  long  as  I have  money.” 

“ Joseph  is  no  longer  in  my  service,  Karl.  He  is  no  longer  in  diffi* 
culty.  He  is  a musician,  and  can  easily  support  himself.  Do  not  rob 
yourself  to  aid  him.” 

“As  for  yourself,  signora,  I can  do  little  for  you,  who  are,  they  tell 
me,  a great  actress ; but  should  you  ever  need  a good  servant,  with- 
out being  able  to  pay  for  one,  send  for  Karl.  He  will  serve  you  for 
nothing,  and  will  be  glad  to  work  for  you.” 

u Such  gratitude  amply  rewards  me,  Karl.  I ask  nothing  from  your 
good  heart.” 

“ Here  comes  Maestro  Porpora.  Remember,  signora,  I only  know 
you  as  a servant  sent  by  my  master  to  attend  on  you.” 

The  next  day  the  twro  travellers,  who  had  risen  early,  reached  the 
castle  of  Roswald.  It  was  in  a lofty  region,  and  the  highest  portion 
of  Moravia,  and  was  so  well  sheltered  from  the  winds  that  the  spring 
had  already  begun  to  exert  its  influence.  Though  the  weather  was 
unusually  mild,  the  roads  were  not  good.  To  Count  Hoditz,  however, 
nothing  was  impossible,  and  he  was  already  on  the  spot  with  a hun- 
dred pioneers,  who  were  at  work  on  the  road  over  which,  on  the  next 
day,  the  majestic  equipage  of  his  noble  spouse  was  to  roll.  It  would, 
perhaps,  have  been  more  conjugal  for  him  to  travel  with  her;  but  he 
was  not  so  anxious  to  keep  her  from  breaking  her  neck  as  to  give  her 
a great  reception.  Dead  or  alive,  she  must  be  nobly  received  on  her 
arrival  at  Roswald. 

The  count  scarcely  permitted  the  travellers  to  change  their  toilet, 
when  he  had  an  excellent  dinner  served  to  them  in  a rocky  and  mossy 
Cavern,  which  a stove,  screened  by  thin  stones,  heated  most  agreeably. 
The  view  from  the  door  of  the  cavern  was  most  magnificent,  and  at 
the  first  glance  delighted  Consuelo.  Nature  had  done  everything  for 
Roswald.  Stern  landscapes,  green  trees,  bounding  streams,  admirable 
prospects,  and  verdant  plains,  all  seemed  to  unite  to  make  it  a pleaa- 
ant  home.  Consuelo,  however,  soon  saw  traces  of  the  touat’i 


eOHSUSLGt. 


496 


Attempts  to  destroy  the  sublimity  of  th.s  nature  The  grotto  would 
have  been  charming,  but  for  a glass  door  which  converted  it  into  a 
very  uncomfortable  dining-room ; and  as  the  trefoil  and  clover  were 
only  beginning  to  spring  up,  the  windows  had  been  decked  with  arti- 
ficial flowers.  Shells  and  stalactites  were  seen  to  be  fastened  to  the 
walls  by  plaster,  and  the  heat  of  the  stove  caused  the  dampness  of 
the  grotto  to  fall  on  the  heads  of  the  inmates  in  a heavy  dew  which 
the  count  would  not  notice.  Porpora  got  out  of  humor,  and  twice  or 
thrice  put  his  hand  on  his  hat,  without  daring  to  put  it  on  his  head 
as  he  wished.  He  was  afraid  that  Consiielo  would  take  a cold,  and  ate 
rapidly,  pretending  to  be  very  anxious  to  see  the  music  he  was  to  play 
on  the  next  day. 

While  this  was  being  urged  by  Porpora,  a servant  entered,  and  told 
Count  Hoditz  that  two  foreign  officers  returning  home  asked  permis- 
sion to  pay  their  compliments  to  him,  and  to  see  the  grounds  and 
palace  of  Roswald. 

The  count  was  used  to  visits  of  this  kind,  and  especially  delighted 
in  playing  the  cicerone  himself.  He,  therefore,  welcomed  them  by 
message,  and  ordered  covers  to  be  placed  for  them. 

A few  moments  after  the  officers  were  introduced.  They  wore  the 
Prussian  uniform.  The  one  who  walked  first,  behind  whom  his  com- 
panion seemed  to  be  completely  hidden,  was  small  and  common  look- 
ing. His  nose  was  long,  coarse  and  expressive  of  no  nobility,  and  made 
more  conspicuous  the  total  absence  of  a chin.  His  shoulders,  which 
were  very  crooked,  gave  an  oldish  air  to  his  form,  which  was  wrapped 
in  the  ungraceful  coat  Frederick  had  invented.  This  man  was  about 
forty  years  of  age,  and  his  step  was  firm  and  distinct.  As  soon  as  he 
had  taken  off  the  villainous  cap  which  came  down  to  the  bridge  of 
his  nose  it  became  apparent  that  there  was  something  good  about  his 
head,  which  was  firm,  intelligent  and  thoughtful.  His  brow  was 
quick  to  move,  and  his  eyes  very  expressive.  His  glance  changed  the 
whole  man,  as  the  sun’s  rays  beautify  and  embellish  the  saddest  and 
most  poetical  localities.  He  seemed  to  grow  a head  taller  whenever 
his  eyes  began  to  shine. 

“ Count  Hoditz  received  them  with  a hospitality  which  was  rather 
cordial  than  ceremonious,  and  without  losing  time,  had  their  plates 
filled  with  the  choicest  delicacies,  and  exhibited  a truly  patriarchal 
kindness.  Hoditz  was  a very  kind  man,  and  vanity,  far  from  corrupt- 
ing his  heart  made  him  more  generous.  The  people  of  his  domains 
were  yet  serfs,  and  all  the  splendors  of  Roswald  had  been  constructed 
at  little  expense  by  the  people  liable  to  labor.  He  bound  flowers 
Around  the  yokes  his  peasants  bore.  He  made  them  forget  what  was 
necessary,  by  exhibiting  all  the  superfluities  of  life,  and  being  satis- 
fied that  happiness  and  pleasure  are  identical,  amused  them  so  that 
they  did  not  dream  of  freedom. 

The  Prussian  (there  was  but  one,  the  other  seeming  to  be  a mere 
shadow,)  seemed  somewhat  surprised,  and  perhaps  rather  shocked  at 
the  count’s  frankness.  He  affected  to  be  somewhat  reserved  when 
Hoditz  said — “Captain,  I beg  you  will  make  ^ourself  at  home.  I 
know  you  are  used  to  the  sternness  of  Frederick’s  armies,  which,  in 
its  place,  I think  is  very  admirable.  Here,  however,  you  are  in  the 
country,  where,  if  we  do  not  amuse  ourselves,  what  can  we  do  ? I 
see  that  you  are  persons  well-educated  and  well-bred,  and  never 
become  Prussian  officers  without  having  shown  both  military  knowl- 
edge And  bravery.  I look  on  you,  then,  as  persons,  the  presence  of 


493 


CONSUELO. 


whom  honors  my  house.  Use  it,  then,  as  your  own,  and  remalft  jteca 
at  long  as  you  please.” 

The  officer  at  once  acted  like  a man  of  sense,  and  after  haring 
thanked  his  host,  began  to  pour  out  the  champagne,  which,  however, 
did  not  excite  him  in  the  least.  He  also  dug  into  an  excellent  pat^ 
about  which  he  made  certain  gastronomical  remarks  and  observa- 
tions, which  did  not  give  the  temperate  Consuelo  a very  high  idea  of 
him.  She  was  struck,  though,  with  the  fire  of  his  eye,  which  aston- 
ished without  charming  her.  She  saw  in  it  something  haughty,  sus- 
picious, and  distrustful. 

While  he  was  at  the  table,  the  officer  told  the  count  that  he  was  the 
Baron  von  Kreutz,  a native  of  Siberia,  and  had  been  sent  to  remount 
the  cavalry  at  Neisse.  He  had  not  been  able  to  resist  the  desire  to  see 
the  palace  and  gardens  of  Roswald,  and  consequently  had  crossed  the 
frontier  with  his  lieutenant,  and  had  taken  occasion  to  purchase  sev- 
eral horses  on  the  way.  He  proposed  to  visit  the  stables  of  the  count 
if  he  had  any  animals  to  sell.  He  traveled  on  horseback,  and  would 
return  on  that  very  night. 

u I will  not  consent  to  that,”  said  Hoditz.  u Just  now  I have  no 
horses  for  sale,  not  having  enough  for  the  new  embellishments  I pro- 
pose to  make.  I wish,  though,  to  enjoy  your  society  for  as  long  a 
time  as  possible.” 

“ They  told  us  when  we  came  hither  that  you  expected  every  day 
the  countess.  We  are  unwilling  to  annoy  you,  and  will  go  as  soon  as 
possible.” 

“ I expect  the  margravine  to-morrow,”  said  the  count.  “ She  will 
come  with  her  daughter,  the  Princess  of  Culmbaeh.  You  are  not  igno- 
rant, gentlemen,  that  I have' been  fortunate  enough  to  make  an  illua- 
trious  alliance.” 

“ With  the  Dowager  Margravine  of  Bareith said  Baron  von 
Kreutz,  who  did  -not  seem  as  much  overpowered  by  her  dignity  as  the 
count  expected. 

“ She  is  the  aunt  of  the  King  of  Prussia,”  said  he,  with  emphasis. 

“ Yes,  I know  she  is,”  said  the  Prussian,  taking  a large  pinch  of 
snuff. 

“As  she  is  a very  graceful  and  affable  lady,”  said  the  count;  “I 
doubt  not  but  that  she  will  be  glad  to  see  officers  of  her  illustrious 
nephew.” 

“We  will  be  very  grateful  for  such  an  honor,”  said  the  baron,  with 
a smile;  “ but  we  will  not  be  able  to  enjoy  it.  Our  duties  require  our 
return  at  once,  and  we  will  take  leave  of  your  excellency  this  very 
night.  In  the  interim  we  will  be  glad  to  look  at  your  beautiful  resi- 
dence. Our  master  has  none  that  can  compare  with  it.” 

This  compliment  made  the  Moravian  noble  very  gracious  to  the 
Prussian.  They  left  the  table.  Porpora,  wTho  cared  less  about  the 
palace  than  his  rehearsal,  did  not  wish  to  walk  with  them. 

“ No,”  said  the  count,  “ we  will  have  both  together,  “you  shall  see, 
maestro.” 

He  gave  his  aim  to  Consuelo,  and  passing  first,  said,  “ Excuse  me, 

fentlemen,  if  I take  possession  of  the  only  lady.  It  is  my  right  as 
ost.  Be  kind  enough  to  follow  me.” 

“ May  I venture,”  said  the  Baron  von  Kreutz  to  Porpora,  “ to  ask 
the  name  of  that  very  amiable  lady.” 

“ Monsieur,”  said  Porpora,  who  was  in  a bad  humor,  * I am  an 
Italian;  I speak  German  very  badly,  and  French  won*  yak" 


COH8USLO.  497 

The  baron  who,  like  other  people  of  his  rank,  hitherto  had  beat 
ipeaking  French,  repeated  bis  question  in  Italian. 

u That  amiable  lady,  who  has  not  spoken  one  word  in  your  presence 
is  neither  margravine,  dowager,  princess,  nor  baroness.  She  is  an 
Italian  singer  of  some  talent.” 

“ I am  anxious  to  know  her  name,”  said  the  baron,  smiling  at  Po£- 
pora’s  rudeness.” 

“ She  is  my  pupil,  la  Porporina,”  said  Porpora. 

“ She  is  a very  skilful  artist,”  said  the  baron,  “ and  is  anxiously 
waited  for  at  Berlin.  As  she  is  your  pupil,  I have  the  honor  of  speak- 
ing to  the  illustrious  Porpora.” 

“ At  your  service,”  said  Porpora,  quickly  replacing  his  hat  which 
he  had  removed  at  the  Baron  von  Kreutz’s  low  bow.  The  latter  see- 
ing how  little  he  was  disposed  to  be  communicative,  let  him  go  ahead, 
and  rejoined  his  lieutenant.  Porpora,  who  had  eyes  in  the  back  of 
hi*  head,  saw  that  they  laughed  and  talked  about  him  in  their  own 
language.  He  was  in  an  especial  bad  humor,  and  did  not  open  his  lip* 
during"  the  rest  of  the  promenade. 


CHAPTER  XCIX 

The  count  took  Consuelo  down  a declivity  at  the  foot  of  which  was 
a miniature  river,  which  once  had  been  a merry  purling  stream ; as  if 
it  was  necessary  to  make  it  navigable,  it  had  been  deepened,  and  on 
itfioated  a gondola  ship  perfectly  rigged,  and  exactly  like  those  of  Ven- 
ice. On  it  they  embarked,  singing  a stanza  of  Tasso ; after  wander- 
ing about  for  half  an  hour,  the  river  ran  into  a basin,  intended  to  rep- 
resent the  sea,  where  was  also  a magnificent  miniature  ship,  rigged 
perfectly,  with  ah  the  paraphernalia.  After  having  embarked  in  this, 
the  count  made  Consuelo  personate  the  margravine,  and  put  all  hands 
through  a rehearsal  of  entertainments,  with  which  on  the  next  day  he 
proposed  to  amuse  the  illustrious  margravine.  Miniature  China,  Pel- 
oponnesus and  other  lands  had  all  been  prepared,  and  to  them  they 
were  made  to  sail  amid  all  the  discomfort  of  a cold  wind,  after  which 
they  were  forced  to  walk  over  half  the  estate.  The  whole  ctf  the  ar- 
rangements were  fantastically  ridiculous  in  the  extreme. 

Proof  against  fatigue,  the  two  Prussian  officers,  though  they  laughed 
at  the  puerile  amusements  of  the  surprises  of  Roswald,  were  not  so 
much  astonished  as  Consuelo  was  at  the  ridicule  of  this  wonderful 
residence.  She  was  a child  of*  nature,  born  in  the  open  fields,  and 
used,  from  the  time  she  first  opened  her  eyes,  to  look  at  God  without 
any  gauze-curtain  or  lorgnette.  The  Baron  von  Kreutz,  though  not 
exactly  a new-comer  into  this  aristocratic  circle,  used  to  fashionable 
drapery  and  frippery,  was  a man  of  the  world,  according  to  the  fash- 
ion of  his  time.  He  had  no  hatred  of  grottoes,  hermitages  and  sym- 
bols. In  fact,  he  amused  himself  good-naturedly,  ana  said  to  his 
Acolyte,  who,  as  they  entered  the  dining-room,  compassionated  him 
for  having  been  so  annoyed : 

u Annoyed  1 not  at  all.  I have  had  exercise,  and  have  gained  aa 
appetite.  I have  witnessed  a thousand  follies,  and  my  mind  has 
justed  from  serious  thought*.  I have  not  lost  my  time  and  trouble** 


( 


498 


r,  i.  o. 


In  the  dining-room  aH  were  surprised  to  find  only  a circle  of  ehabi 
•round  an  empty  place.  The  count  having  asked  his  guests  t6  sit 
down,  bade  his  valets  to  serve  up  dinner. 

“Alas,  monseigneur,”  said  one,  the  duty  of  whom  It  was  to  reply, 
* we  had  nothing  fit  for  such  distinguished  company,  and  wo  have 
not  even  set  the  table.” 

“ That  is  a pretty  business  I ” said  Amphitryon,  pretending  to  be  in 
a rage.  After  the  lapse  of  a few  moments  he  said — “ Well,  since  man 
refhses  us  supper,  I call  on  the  lower  regions,  and  order  Pluto  to  send 
me  one  worthy  of  my  guests.”  As  he  spoke,  he  struck  on  the  floor 
three  times,  and  the  floor  at  once  opening,  perfumed  flames  arose. 
Then  there  was  heard  the  sound  of  music,  and  a magnificently  served 
table  rose  up  before  the  guests. 

“ That  is  not  well,”  said  the  count,  lifting  up  the  cloth,  and  speak* 
ing  beneath  the  table.  “ I am  much  surprised,  though,  that  Pluto  is 
»o  well  aware  that  there  is  no  water  in  my  house.  He  has  not  sent 
me  a drop.” 

“ Count  Hoditz,”  said  a hoarse  voice,  worthy  of  Tartarus,  “ in  our 
world  water  is  scarce,  Jie  rivers  having  dried  up,  the  light  of  the 
margravine’s  voice  having  reached  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth.  Yet 
if  you  insist  on  it,  we  will  send  one  of  the  Daniades  to  see  if  any  can 
be  found  in  the  Styx.” 

“ Let  her  be  quick,  and  go  with  a bucket  without  a hole  in  the 
bottom.” 

Just  then  there  sprang  from  a jasper  vase,  in  the  middle  of  the 
table,  a jet  of  rock-water,  which  fell  back  on  itself  during  the  whole 
meal,  in  a shower  of  diamonds,  which  glittered  in  the  light  of  count* 
less  lamps.  The  whole  feast  was  a perfect  display  of  wealth  and  bad 
taste;  and  the  water  of  the  Styx,  the  infernal  cookery,  afforded  the 
count  material  for  a thousand  jests  and  witticisms,  which,  in  spite  of 
their  childishness,  were  listened  to.  The  repast  was  served  by  sylvans 
and  nymphs,  more  or  less  beautiful,  and  enlightened  the  ^aron  not  a 
little.  He  paid  but  mediocre  attention  to  the  beautiful  slaves  of' Ho- 
ditz. These  poor  peasant  women  were  at  once  servants,  mistresses, 
and  actresses  to  their  sejgnor.  He  was  their  professor  of  the  graces, 
of  dancing,  and  of  declarations.  At  P&ssau,  Consuelo  had  seen  how 
he  proceeded  with  them,  and  she  wondered  at  the  proud  offer  he  had 
made  her,  and  the  respectful  sang  froid  with  which  he  now  treated 
her,  without  seeming  either  confused  or  surprised.  She  knew  on  the 
next  day,  when  the. margravine  came,  things  would  change,  that  she 
would  dine  in  her  own  room,  with  the  maestro,  and  not  have  the 
honor  of  being  admitted  to  the  table  of  her  highness ; this  did  not 
annoy  her,  though  just  then  she  was  ignorant  of  a circumstance  which 
would  for  the  moment  have  amused  her  greatly ; the  fact  was,  she 
was  now  supping  with  an  illustrious  person,  who  would  on  no  account 
•upon  the  next  day  with  the  margravine. 

The  baron,  smiling  coldly  'at  the  appearance  of  the  nymphs,  paid 
more  attention  to  Porporina,  when,  having  induced  her  to  break  the 
silence,  he  began  to  talk  of  mu^c.  He  was  an  enlightened  and  al- 
most passionate  admirer  of  the  divine  art,  of  which  he  spoke  in  such 
a manner  as  to  do  what  good  cheer  could  not — soothe  Porpora’s  ill- 
humor. 

“ I hope,”  said  he  to  the  baron,,  who  had  delicately  praised  his  men* 
net  without  mentioning  his  name,  “ that  the  sovereign  of  the  oonrf 
to  which  we  go  is  as  good  a judge  as  yon  are.” 


e a x s XJE  l o.  499 

0 lliey  mj  my  sovereign  is  well  informed  on  ibis  matter  and  that 
ha  really  loves  the  fine  art3  ” 

44  Are  yotf  sure  of  it,  baron  ? ” said  the  maestro,  who  could  not  talk 
without  contradicting  some  one.  “ I hardly  flatter  myself  with  tha 
hope.  Kings  are,  according  to  their  subjects,  always  masters  of  every 
art; -but  it  generally  happens  that  the  latter  are  much  better  edu- 
eated.” 

44  In  war,  as  in  science  and  engineering,  the  King  of  Prussia  know! 
more  than  any  of  us,”  said  the  lieutenant,  zealously.  44  As  for  music, 
it  is  certain ” 

44  That  you  and  I know  nothing  about  it,”  said  Captain  Yon  Kreuta. 
"Signor  Porpora  can ‘arrogate  to  himself  the  decision  of  that  ques- 
tion.” 

44  Royal  dignity,”  said  Porpora,  * has  no  influence  on  me  in  musical 
matters.  When  I had  the  honor  to  instruct  the  Electoral  Princess 
of  Saxony,  I corrected  her  false  notes  as  I would  those  of  any  one 
else.” 

44  What  I ” said  the  Baron,  looking  ironically  at  his  lieutenant,  44  do 
kings  ever  utter  false  notes  ? ” 

44  Like  other  people.  I must  say,  however,  that  the  princess,  when 
under  my  tuition,  rarely  did  so,  for  she  had  a fine  intelligence  to  aid 
her.” 

44  Then  you  will  excuse  some  false  notes  in  our  Fritz,  if  he  were  im- 
pertinent enough  to  make  any  ? ” 

44  Provided  he  would  correct  them.” 

44  But  you  would  not  find  fault  loudly  with  him  ? ” said  Count  Ho- 
ditz,  laughing. 

44  Yes,  I would,  even  if  he  cut  my  head  off  for  It,”  said  the  maestro, 
the  confidence  of  whom,  under  the  influence  of  the  champagne,  had 
become  rather  expansive. 

Consuelo  had  been  duly  informed  by  the  old  canon  that  Prussia  was 
a great  prefecture  of  police,  and  that  the  most  trivial  words  uttered  on 
the  frontier,  in  the  lowest  tone,  by  means  of  a system  of  mysterious 
and  accurate  echoes,  in  a very  short  time  reached  Frederick’s  cabinet ; 
and  that  it  would  never  do  to  say  to  any  Prussian  soldier  or  officer, 
44  How  are  you  ? ” without  weighing  every  word,  and,  as  little  children 
say,  turning  the  tongue  over  seven  times  in  the  mouth.  She  was 
sorry,  then,  to  see  the  maestro  embark  in  this  mocking  humor,  and 
•ought  to  repair  his  impudence  by  a little  flattery. 

44  Even  if  the  King  of  Prussia  be  not  first  musician  of  the  age,  one 
who  is  familiar  with  so  many  arts  may  be  permitted  to  disdain  One  of 
no  practical  use.” 

She  was  ignorant  that  Frederick  was  as  proud  of  being  a great 
flutist  as  of  being  a great  captain  and  philosopher. 

44  If  the  king  esteemed  music  or  art  worthy  of  study,”  said  the  baron 
* he  probably  had  devoted  a considerable  portion  of  his  time  to  it,” 

44  Bah  I ” said  Porpora,  who  was  becoming  more  and  more  excited 
44  time  and  study  in  matters  of  art  are  useless  to  those  to  whom  God 
has  not  given  the  innate  faculty.  Music  is  not  in  the  power  of  all ; 
and  it  is  easier  to  win  battles  and  pension  men  of  letters,  than  wrest 
the  sacred  fire  from  the  Muses.  The  Baron  Frederick  Yon  Trenck 
told  me,  that  when  his  Prussian  Majesty  played  out  of  tune,  the  fault 
was  always  laid  on  the  courtiers.  That  vi  ill  not  do  with  me,  though.” 

44  Did  Von  Trenck  say  that?  ” repeated  the  baron,  whose  eyes  were 
lighted  up  with  surprise  and  anger.  44  Weil,”  said  he,  cglming  himself 


MO 


CON8UILO, 


by  a violent  effort,  *the  poor  devil  must  now  have  lost  all  taite  lb f 
Jokes,  being  now  in  the  citadel  of  Glatz  for  life.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said  Porpora.  “ What  is  his  offence?  ” 

“ That  is  a state  secret.  But  everything  tends  to  show  that  he  has 
betrayed  the  confidence  of  his  master.” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  lieutenant,  “he  has  sold  the  plans  of  the  Prussian 
fortifications  to  the  Austrians.” 

“ That  is  impossible,”  said  Consuelo,  growing  pale,  and  who,  though 
she  thought  to  restrain  her  expressions,  could  not  repress  that  ex- 
clamation. 

“ It  is  impossible,  and  it  is  false.  Those  who  persuaded  the  king  of 
that  lied,” 

“ I presume  you  do  not  mean  to  contradict  us  indirectly  ? ” said  the 
lieutenant,  growing  pale. 

“ One  must  be  most  awkwardly  susceptible  to  think  so,”  said  Yon 
Kreutz,  looking  imperiously  at  his  companion.  “ Wbat,  however,  can 
all  that  be  to  you?  and  how  is  the  maestro,  Porpora,  so  warm  in  his 
friendship  for  that  youngtman?” 

“ I would  be  as  warm,”  said  Porpora,  “ in  the  presence  of  the  king 
himself.  He  is  mistaken and  it  is  wrong  in  him  to  be  mistaken. 
Yon  Trenck  is  a noble  young  man,  and  incapable  of  a piece  of  villany 
like  that.” 

“ 1 think,  maestro,”  said  Consuelo,  whom  the  expression  of  the  ba- 
ron’s face  made  more  and  more  uneasy,  “ when  you  have  the  honor 
of  approaching* Frederick  the  Great,  you  will  speak  to  him  of  nothing 
but  music.” 

“ The  young  lady  seems  very  prudent.  She  was  very  intimate  with 
Yon  Trenck,  though,  at  Yienna.” 

u%  sir!”  said  Consuelo,5 1 with  very  perfectly  acted  indifference;  “I 
scarcely  know  him.” 

“ But,”'  said  the  baron,  with  a piercing  eye,  “ were  the  king  to  ask 
your  opinion  of  Trenck’s  treason  ? ” 

“Baron,”  said  Consuelo,  meeting  his  glance- with  modest  calmness, 
“ I would  tell  him  I have  no  faith  in  treason  by  any  one,  being  inca- 
pable of  it  myself.” 

“ That  is  a noble  sentiment,”  said  the  baron:  and  his  brow  at  once 
brightened.  “You,  signora,  have  uttered  it  as  if  you  believed  it.” 

He  spoke  of  other  matters,  and  charmed  all  by  his  w.it  and  grace. 
During  the  rest  of  the  supper,  he  spoke  to  Consuelo  with  an  expres- 
sion of  good  will  and  confidence,  which  ehe  had  not  seen  him  wear 
before. 


CHAPTER  C. 

Afteb  the  dessert,  a drooped  figure  came  among  the  guests,  saying, 
“ Follow  me ! ” Consuelo,  who  was  again  doomed  to  play  the  mar- 
pavine,  in  the  rehearsal  of  a new  scene,  rose  first,  and,  accompanied 
by  the  other  guests,  went  up  the  gr  at  staircase  of  the  chateau,  which 
led  from  a door  at  the  bottom  of  the  hall.  The  figure  yet  preceding 
them,  pushed  open  another  door  at  the  top  of  the  stairway,  where 
they  found  themselves  in  a vast  antique  gallery,  at  the  extremity  of 
which  there  was  a feeble  light.  From  that  part  of  the  room  came 


CONSUBLO.  601 

slow,  solemn,  and  mysterious  music,  which  was  imagined  to  com# 
from  the  other  world. 

u Per  Bacco  1 ” said  Porpora,  enthusiastically,  “ the  count  refuse# 
no  nothing.  We  have  heard  to-day  Turkish,  Chinese,  nauticai  and 
Lilliputian  music:  this,  however,  surpasses  all,  and  seems  really  to 
come  from  below.” 

u An  1 you  have  not  yet  come  to  the  end,”  said  the  count,  en- 
chanted at  this  eulogium. 

“ One  must  be  prepared  for  everything,  from  your  excellency,”  said 
Von  Kreutz,  with  the  same  irony  which  the  professor  had  used 
“ after  what  we  have  seen  already,  nothing  can  surprise  us.” 

At  the  extremity  of  the  gallery,  the  shadow  struck  on  a kind  of 
gong,  and  a vast  curtain  being  withdrawn,  the  theatre  was  seen  illu- 
minated, as  it  would  be  on  the  morrow.  I will  not  seek  to  describe  it, 
though  it  would  be  very  appropriate — 

Oe  n’el.ait  que  festions,  ce  n’eclciit  qu ’ astragales. 

The  curtain  was  lifted  up.  The  scene  represented  Olympus— 
neither  more  nor  less.  The  goddesses  were  disputing  for  the  heart 
of  the  shepherd  Paris — and  the  meeting  of  the  three  principal  divin- 
ities, made  the  chief  portion  of  the  piece.  It  wa£  Written  in  Italian, 
and  made  Porpora  say,  as  he  spoke  to  Consuelo — u The  slave,  and  the 
Chinese  were  nothing;  now  we  have  the  Iroquois.”  Verses  and 
music  were  all  written  by  the  Count.  The  actors  and  actresses  were 
worthy  of  their  parts.  After  half  an  hour  of  metaphors  and  conceits, 
in  relation  to  the  absence  of  the  most  charming  and  powerful  divin- 
ity, who  disdained  to  dispute  the  prize  of  beauty — Paris,  having  re- 
solved to  ensure  the  triumph  of  Venus,  the  latter  took  the  apple,  and 
coming  into  the  stage,  placed  it  at  the  feet  of  Consuelo.  This  will 
give  an  idea  of  the  character  of  the  piece,  which,  however,  the  Count 
looked  on  as  a chef  cl’ceuvre,  and  insisted  that  Consuelo  should  per- 
sonate Venus,  and  should  read  with  Porpora  during  the  evening,  and 
the  next  morning.  It  was  not  long  nor  difficult  to  learn,  and  they 
were~sure  at  the  time  of  the  performance  of  being  quite  up  with  the 
rest  of  the  troop.  The  party  then  visited  the  ball  room,  which  was 
not  yet  ready,  because  the  dances  were  not  to  take  place  until  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  and  offer  an  uninterrupted  series  of  amusements. 

It  was  ten  o’clock  at  night.  The  weather  was  fair  and  the  moon 
magnificent.  The  two  Prussian  officers  insisted  on  crossing  the  bar- 
rier that  very  night,  saying  “ that  they  were  ordered  never  to  sleep 
beyond  the  frontier.”  The  Count  then  was  forced  to  yield ; and  hav- 
ing ordered  their  horses  to  be  prepared,  took  them  to  drink  the  stir- 
rup-cup— that  is  to  say,  to  taste  coffee  and  sundry  choice  liquors — in 
a boudoir,  whither  Consuelo  did  not  think  proper  to  accompany 
them.  She  then  bade  them  adieu,  and  after  enjoining  on  Porpora  to 
be  more  on  his  guard  than  he  had  been  during  supper,  went  to  her 
room,  which  was  in  another  wing  of  the  chateau. 

She  soon,  however,  became  lost  in  the  detours  of  this  labyrinth,  and 
soon  got  into  a kind  of  cloister,  where  her  lamp  was  near  going  out. 
— Fearing  to  go  yet  farther  wrong,  or  perhaps  injure  herself  in  some 
of  the  surprises , with  which  the  house  was  filled,  she  resolved  to  feel 
her  way  back  until  she  came  to  that  part  of  the  house  which  was  well 
lighted.  Amid  the  confusion  of  preparations  for  all  the  follies  which 
were  meditated,  comfort  had  been  entirely  neglected.  Savages,  shad- 
ows, gods,  hermits,  nymphs,  games,  sports,  were  in  abundance ; but 
there  was  not  a servant  to  hold  a light,  or  a single  person  with  good 
sense  enough  to  answer  a question. 


608 


CONSCBLG. 


Juft  then  she  heard  the  steps  of  a person,  who  seemed  to  w*Hi 
careftilly,  and  glide  along  the  walls.  She  had  not  confidence  enough 
to  call  to  him,  especially  as  from  the  step,  and  distinct  breathing,  she 
knew  it  must  be  a man.  She  advanced,  with  not  a little  excitement, 
holding  on  to  the  wall,  when  she  saw  a door  open  not  far  from  her, 
and  the  light  of  the  moon  penetrating  through  the  wall,  fell  on  the 
tall  and  manly  form  of  Karl.  She  hastened  to  speak  to  him. 

u Is  it  you,  signora  ? ” said  he,  in  an  excited  voice.  “ For  a long 
time  I have  sought  for  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  you,  and  now  pe^ 
haps  I am  too  late.” 

“ What  have  you  to  say,  Karl,  and  whence  comes  your  emotion  ? ” 

“ Leave  this  corridor,  signpra ; I must  speak  to  you  in  a place  more 
completely  isolated,  and  where,  I hope,  no  one  can  hear  us.” 
Consuelo  went  with  Karl  to  a terrace,  which  was  on  one  side  of  the 
flanks  of  the  chateau. 

“ Signora,”  said  the  deserter,  speaking  with  precaution,  (having 
come  that  morning  to  Roswald  for  the  first  time,  he  knew  nothing 
more  of  the  things  and  people  around  him,  than  Consuelo) ; “ have 
you  said  nothing  to-day  likely  to  expose  you  to  the  dissatisfaction  or 
distrust  of  the  King  of  Prussia,  for  which  you  might  be  sorry  some 
day  at  Berlin,  if  the  king  should  hear  of  it  ? ” 

“ Nothing,  Karl.  I knew  that  any  Prussian,  with  whom  one  is  not 
acquainted,  is  a dangerous  person  to  talk  with — I,  therefore,  watched 
every  word.” 

“ And  you  were  right.  I drew  near  you  two  or  three  times,  when 
we  were  in  that  log  vessel.  I was  one  of  the  pirates,  who  you  will  re- 
member pretended  to  be  about  to  board,  but  you  did  not  know  me. 
It  was  in  vain  that  I looked  at  and  made  signs  to  you,  but  I could  not 
speak.  That  officer  was  always  at  your  side ; and  all  the  time  you 
were  on  |ke  lake,  he  did  not  leave  you.  One  might  have  fancied  he 
took  you  Tor  a breastplate,  and  stood  behind  you,  for  fear  some  chance 
shot  should  strike  him.” 

“ What  do  you  mean,  Karl  ? I do  not  understand  you.  Who  is 
that  officer  ? I do  not  know  him.” 

“ I need  not  tell  you.  You  will  find  out  as  soon  as  you  go  to  Ber- 
lin.” 

“ Why  make  a secret  of  it  now?” 

“ Because  it  is  a terrible  secret,  which  I must  keep  for  one  hour 
more.” 

“ Y ou  are  very  much  agitated,  Karl*  What  is  it  that  troubles  you  ? ” 
“ Much.  Hell  is  in  my  heart  I ” 

“ Hell ! one  might  fancy  you  meditated  something  wrong.” 
u Perhaps  I do.” 

M Then  you  must  tell  me.  You  have  no  right  to  conceal  it  from  me, 
Karl ; for  you  promised  perfect  submission  and  devotion.” 

“ What,  signora  ? True ; I owe  you  more  than  life,  for  you  did  all 
you  could  to  preserve  my  wife  and  daughter.  They  were  doomed, 
however,  and  died.  They  must  be  avenged.” 

" Karl,  in  the  name  of  your  wife  and  child,  who  now  pray  for  you 
in  heaven,  I order  you  to  speak.  You  medi  ate,  I know  not  what  act 
of  folly ; you  wish  to  avenge  them.  The  sight  of  that  Prussian  ren- 
ders you  mad.” 

“ It  makes  me  furious.  N dw,  however,  I am  calm  as  a saint.  You 
see,  signora,  the  hand  of  God,  not  of  the  devil,  is  on  me*  Farewell— 
the  time  is  nearly  come.  It  may  be,  that  I will  not  see  you  again,  and 


eowsoKto.  60S 

I ktc  ytra  to  pay  for  a mass  for  me,  at  the  shrine  of  St  John  Ndpo- 
Mtnck,  one  of  the  patrons  of  Bohemia.” 

M Karl,  you  will  tell  me— you  will  confess  to  me — the  ideas  which 
torment  you,  and  I will  pray  for  you.  If  not,  I will  invoke  the  curses 
of  your  wife  and  daughter,  who  are  God’s  angels,  and  rest  in  the 
bosom  cf  His  merciful  son.  How  can  you  be  pardoned  in  heaven,  if 
you  do  not  pardon  on  earth  ? I see  that  you  have  a carbine  under 
your  cl  Jak,  and  are  watching  for  the  Prussians  ? ” 

“ No,  signora, — not  here.  I would  not  shed  blood  in  my  master’s 
house,  nor  before  you,  pure  and  good  as  you  are — but  amid  the  moun- 
tain there  is  a dark  pass  which  I know,  having  been  there  when  they 
rode  by.  I was  there,  however,  by  chance,  and  without  arms.  I did 
not  know  him  at  first  He  will  return  there,  and  I will  meet  him, 
well  mounted  as  he  is.  You  are  right,  signora,  I have  a carbine — an 
excellent  one  with  a ball  in  it  for  his  heart.  It  has  long  been  there- 
for when  I played  the  pirate  I was  in  earnest.  The  opportunity  was 
good,  and  I took  aim  at  him  half-a-dozen  times.  You  were  there,  how 
ever,  and  I did  not  fire.  Soon  you  will  be  away,  and  then  he  cannot 
hide  behind  you,  like  a coward,  as  I know  he  is.  I saw  him  grow  pale 
and  turn  his  back,  one  day  when  he  was  forcing  us  to  march  against 
the  Bohemians,  our  countrymen.  Horrid!  for  I am  a Bohemian  in 
heart  and  in  blood — that  blood  is  unforgiving.  If,  however,  I am  a 
poor  peasant,  who  learned  in  the  forest  to  handle  the  wedge,  he  made 
a soldier  of  me,  and,  thanks  to  his  corporal,  I can  fire  my  gun  with  as 
much  accuracy  as  any  one.” 

“ Karl,  be  silent— you  are  mad.  You  do  not  know  that  man,  I am 
sure.  He  is  the  Baron  von  Kreutz.  You  do  not  know  him.  He  is 
no  recruiter,  and  never  injured  you.” 

“ Signora,  he  is  not  the  Baron  von  Kreutz ; no,  Signora,  I know 
him  well.  I have  seen  him  on  parade  a hundred  times.  He  is  a 
great  recruiter,  and  the  chief  of  the  men-stealers  and  destroyers  of 
families.  He  is  the  scourge  of  Bohemia,  and  my"  enemy.  He  is  the 
enemy  of  our  church,  religion,  and  saints,  and  profaned  by  impious 
ridicule  the  statue  of  St.  John  Nepomuck  on  the  bridge  of  Prague. 
He  stole  from  the  castle  of  Prague  the  drum  covered  with  Ziska’s 
skin;  and  as  Ziska  was  a great  warrior,  all  Bohemia  honored  that 
drum.  No,  I am  not  mistaken,  and  I know  him.  Besides,  Saint 
Wenceslaw  appeared  to  me  just  now  as  I prayed  in  the  chapel.  I saw 
him  distinctly  as  I see  you,  and  said  to  me;  ‘ It  is  he— dig  out  his 
heart.’  I swore  to  the  Virgin,  over  my  wife’s  tomb,  to  do  so,  and  7, 
will  keep  my  oath.  Oh ! signora,  look ; there  is  his  horse  at  the  door; 
that  is  what  I needed.  I will  to  my  post.  Pray  for  me;  for  I mu sL 
sooner  or  later,  atone  for  this  with  my  life.  That  is  of  little  matter  if 
God  save  my  soul  I ” 

“ Karl,”  said  Consuelo,  with  unusual  force,  “ I thought  you  were 
generous,  sensible,  and  pious ; yet  I find  that  you  are  a coward,  a re- 
viler,  and  a wretch.  Whoever  the  man  you  wish  to  murder  may  be,  I 
forbid  you  to  follow  or  injure  him.  The  devil  has  assumed  the  form 
of  a saint  to  betray  you.  Ycu  are  base  and  ungrateful,  I say;  for  you 
io  not  remember  that  Coun  ; Hoditz,  who  has  been  kind  to  you,  and 
has  heaped  benefits  on  your  head,  will  be  accused  of  your  crime,  and 
will  pay  for  it  with  his  head.  Go,  seclude  yourself  in  some  cave,  Karl, 
and  do  penance  for  the  very  thought.  Look  there— your  wife  weepa 
beside  you,  and  seeks  4*o  keep  back  your  good  angel  who  is  about  to 


604 


CCNSUILO, 


w My  wife  1 my  wife  ” said  Karl  completely  amazed:  “ I do  not  wm 
her.  Speak  to  me  if  you  are  here.  Let  me  see  you  once  again  before 

I die.” 

“You  cannot  see  her:  your  heart  is  wicked.  Kneel,  Karl,  kned' 
'Give  me  that  gun,  and  pray.” 

Consuelo  took  the  carbine,  which  Karl  did  not  seek  to  retain,  and 
hastened  to  put  it  out  of  his  sight,  while  he  knelt  and  wept-  She 
.eft  the  terrace  to  place  it  somewhere  else,  being  completely  exhausted 
by  the  effort  she  had  made  to  acquire  an  influence  over  the  fanatic 
by  evoking  chimeras.  Time  pressed,  and  this  was  no  occasion  to 
read  a moral  lecture.  She  said  exactly  what  suggested  itself,  being, 
perhaps,  under  the  influence  of  an  inspiration  which  made  her  sym- 
pathise with  the  poor  man,  whom  she  wished  at  all  events  to  save 
from  an  act  of  madness,  and  whom  she  seemed  to  censure  severely, 
though  she  pitied  the  delirium  he  could  not  control. 

She  hurried  to  bide  the  weapon,  intending  to  rejoin  and  detain  him 
until  the  Prussians  had  gone.  Just  then  opening  the  little  door 
which  led  from  the  terrace  to  the  corridor,  she  saw  Baron  von  Kreutz 
face  to  face  with  her.  He  had  gone  to  his  room  to  get  his  pistols  and 
cloak.  Consuelo  had  only  time  to  hide  the  carbine  behind  the  door 
and  go  into  the  corridor,  closing  the  door  between  Karl  and  herself. 
She  was  afraid  the  sight  of  the  enemy  would  revive  all  his  fury. 

The  precipitation  of  her  motions,  and  her  leaning  against  the  door 
as  if  she  were  about  to  faint,  did  not  escape  the  clear  eye  of  Count 
von  Kreutz.  He  had  a light  in  hi*  hand,  and  paused,  with  a smile, 
before  her.  His  face  was  perfectly  calm,  yet  Consuelo  fancied  that 
the  light  quivered  in  his  hand.  The  lieutenant  was  behind  him,  pale 
as  death,  with  a drawn  sword  in  his  hand.  These  circumstances,  as 
well  as  the  certainty  she  acquired  at  a later  hour  that  a window  of 
the  room  in  which  the  baron  had  placed  his  luggage  opened  on  the 
terrace,  made  Consuelo  think  subsequently  that  the  two  Prussians 
had  heard  every  word  of  the  conversation.  The  baronf  however, 
saluted  her  courteously  and  kindly ; but  her  alarm  rendered  her  un- 
able to  return  it.  Yon  Kreutz  looked  attentively  at  her  with  an  ex- 
pression of  more  interest  than  surprise.  He  said  to  her  kindly,  tak- 
ing her  the  while  by  the  hand : 

“ Calm  yourself,  my  child;  you  seem  much  agitated.  We  frighten- 
ed you  as  we  passed  so  rapidly  before  the  door  just  as  you  opened  it. 
We  are,  however,  your  servants  and  your  friends,  perhaps  we  may 
meet  at  Berlin,  where  I may  be  useful  to  you.” 

The  baron  drew  Consuelo’s  hand  towards  him,  as  if  half  inclined 
to  kiss  it.  He  but  pressed  it  gently,  bowed  again,  and  retired,  accom- 
panied by  his  subaltern,  who  did  not  even  seem  to  see  Consuelo,  so 
much  was  he  troubled,  and  so  completely  beside  himself.  The  cir- 
cumstance confirmed  Consuelo  in  her  idea  that  he  was  aware  of  the 
danger  to  which  they  had  been  exposed. 

Who,  thought  she,  was  this  man,  the  responsibility  of  whom 
weighed  so  heavily  on  the  heart  of  another,  and  the  destruction  of 
whom  seemed  so  completely  intoxicating  to  Karl?  Consuelo  re- 
turned to  the  terrace  to  wrest  this  secret  from  him.  She  found  he 
had  fainted  away ; and  being  unable  to  lift  him,  went  to  call  other 
servants  to  his  assistance. 

“ This  is  nothing,”  said  they ; “ he  has  drunk  too  much  hydromel, 
and  we  will  put  him  to  bed.”  Consuelo  wished  to  go  with  them;  fot 
•he  was  afraid,  when  he  recovered  his  senses,  Karl  would  betray  his 


GOK8UBLO. 


m 

mmt>  She  was  prevented  from  doing  so  by  Count  Hodltx,  who  took 
her  arm,  and  said  he  was  glad  she  had  not  gone  to  bed,  for  he  had  in- 
tended to  regale  her  with  a new  spectacle.  She  had  to  go  to  the  front 
door,  where  she  saw  on  one  of  the  hills  of  the  park,  precisely  over 
the  spot  Karl  had  pointed  out,  an  arch  of  light,  on  which  was  conftuh 
edly  distinguished  letters  in  colored  lamps. 

“ It  is  a very  handsome  illumination,”  said  she,  in  a tone  of  deep 
abstraction. 

44  It  is  a piece  of  politeness — an  adieu  to  the  guest  who  has  just  left 
us.  Before  a quarter  of  an  hour  has  sped  he  will  pass  through  a 
hollow  ravine  we  cannot  see  from  this  place,  and  will  see  this  tri- 
umphal arch  raised  above  him  as  if  by  magic.” 

44  Count,”  said  Consuelo,  aroused  from  her  revery,  44  who  is  the 
person  that  has  just  left  us  ? ” 

“ By-and-by  you  will  know.” 

“ If  I should  not  ask,  I will  say  no  more.  I suspect  that  his  name 
is  not  the  Baron  von  Kreutz.” 

“ I was  not  deceived  for  an  instant,”  said  Hoditz,  with  not  a little 
pride.  “I  preserved  his  incognito,  however,  most  religiously.  I know 
people  become  offended  when  they  are  not  treated  exactly  as  they 

wish  to  be.  You  saw  I treated  him  as  a simple  officer,  and  yet ” 

The  count  died  almost  from  a desire  to  speak ; propriety,  however, 
forbade  him  to  utter  so  holy  a name.  He  took  a middle  way,  and  gave 
Consuelo  his  lorgnette. 

“ Look,”  said  he,  “ how  well  this  improvised  arch  has  succeeded. 
It  is  a half  mile  from  me,  and  yet  with  my  lorgnette,  which  is  an  ex- 
cellent one,  you  may  read  what  is  written  below.  The  letters  are 
twenty  feet  high,  though  imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye.” 

Consuelo  looked  at,  and  easily  deciphered  the  inscription,  which  re- 
vealed everything  to  heri  It  was — 

“ Vivat  Fredericus  magnus  ! ” 

* Count,”  said  she,  u it  is  dangerous  for  such  a personage  to  travel 
thus.  It  is  yet  more  dangerous  to  entertain  him.” 

44 1 do  not  understand  you.  We  are  at  peace,  and  no  one  now  would 
dare  to  injure  him,  while  in  the  estates  of  the  empire.  Besides,  there 
is  nothing  unpatriotic  in  treating  him  hospitably.” 

Consuelo  was  wrapped  in  a revery.  Hoditz  groused  her  from  it,  by 
saying  that  he  had  an  humble  petition  to  present  her.  He  was  afraid 
of  abusing  her  politeness,  but  the  thing  was  so  important  that  he  could 
not  fovbear.  After  many  circumlocutions,  he  told  her  that  he  was 
anxious  she  should  assume  the  role  of  the  shadow.” 

“ What  shadow  ? ” said  Consuelo,  who  thought  only  of  Frederick, 
and  what  had  just  happened. 

“ The  shadow  who,  after  the  desert,  will  come  for  the  margravine 
and  lead  her  through  the  Tartarian  gallery — where  I have  placed  the 
ball  of  the  dead— to  conduct  her  into  the  theatre  of  Olympus.  Venus 
does  not  appear  until  long  after  you,  and  you  will  have  time  to  lay 
aside  the  shroud,  for  the  brilliant  costume  of  the  mother  of  the  loves. 
It  will  be  ©f  satin,  with  bows  of  silver  and  of  chenille,  with  a very 
small  hoop;  hair  without  powder;  pearls  and  feathers,  roses,  <fec.,— all 
will  be  very  elegant,  but  very  decent.  You  will  play  the  shadow. 
You  must  walk  with  great  dignity;  and  not  one  of  my  people  will 
dare  say  to  her  highness—4  follow  me/  It  is  a very  difficult  thing  to 
and  I have  fancied  a person  of  genius  might  make  a great  part  el 
IK  HW  think  fou  of  it?” 


eONSUXLO' 


m 

u Admirable.  I will  play  the  shadow  with  all  my  heart,”  said  Goa 
tuelo,  smiling. 

“ Ah!  you  are  a perfect  angel,”  said  the  count,  kissing  her  hand. 

. But,  alas ! this  fete,  this  brilliant  fete,  which  the  count  had  taken 
such  care  for,  and  which  had  required  him  to  make  those  journeys  to 
Moravia,  was  all  to  end  in  smoke,  like  the  sombre  and  serious  ven- 
geance of  Karl.  At  noon  ".he  next  day,  all  was  ready.  The  people  of 
Koswald  were  under  arms— the  nymphs,  genii,  savages,  dwarfs,  giants, 
shadows,  and  mandarins,  were  all  ready  to  begin  their  evolutions. 
The  mountain  was  swept  clear  of  snow  and  covered  with  moss. 
Guests  had  collected  from  the  neighbouring  chateaux,  and  formed  a 
respectable  cortege,  when  lo ! and  behold ! a thunderbolt  overturned 
all.  A courier  arrived  saying — ‘ that  her  highness  had  been  upset, 
and  was  forced  to  remain  at  Olmutz.’  The  crowd  dispersed ; and  the 
count,  accompanied  by  Karl,  who  had  regained  his  reason,  mounted 
two  of  the  best  horses  and  set  out  at  once,  after  having  spoken  briefly 
to  his’major-domo. 

The  Pleasures,  the  Rivers,  Hours,  and  the  Streamlets,  put  on  their 
heavy  boots  and  woollen  caps,  and  returned  to  work,  pell-mell,  with 
Chinese  pirates  and  Anthropophagi.  The  guests  got  into  their  car- 
riages, and  the  berlin,  in  which  Porpora  had  come,  was  again  har- 
nessed up.  The  major-domo,  in  obedience  to  his  orders,  gave  him 
the  money  which  he  had  been  promised,  and  forced  him  to  take  it, 
though  it  had  scarcely  been  earned.  They  set  out  that  very  day  for 
Prague,  the  professor,  delighted  at  having  gotten  rid  of  the  count’s 
music  and  the  many-tongued  cantatas  of  his  host;  Consuelo,  looking 
with  regret  on  Silesia,  and  distressed  at  being  unable  to  extend  any 
aid  to  the  unfortunate  prisoner  of  Glatz. 

On  the  same  day,  the  Baron  von  Kreutz  who  had  passed  the  night 
m a village  not  far  from  the  Moravian  frontier,  and  who  had  set  out 
in  the  morning  in  a great  travelling  carriage,  escorted  by  mounted 
pages  and  a berlin,  which  contained  his  clerk  and  travelling  treasury, 
said  to  his  lieutenant  or  rather  his  aide-de-camp,  the  Baron  von  Bud- 
denbrock,  as  they  were  about  to  enter  the  city  of  Neisse,  (we  must 
remark  that,  offended  at  his  awkwardness  on  the  previous  evening, 
he  had  not  spoken  to  him  before,) — “ What  illumination  was  that  I 
saw  over  a hill  we  passed  last  night  ? ” 

“ Sire,”  said  the  aide,  “ X saw  nothing.” 
u One  who  travels  with  me,  should  see  everything.” 

“Your  majesty  must  excuse  me,  on  account  of  the  trouble  in 
which  the  revelation  of  that  rascal  plunged  me.” 

“You  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  That  man  is  an 
unfortunate  Catholic  devotee,  exasperated  by  the  sermons  the  Bohe- 
mian curates  preached  about  me  during  the  war.  He  was  also  aggra- 
vated by  some  personal  wrong.  He  must  have  been  some  peasant 
borne  off  by  my  troops,  or  some  of  those  deserters  every  now  and 
then  overtaken,  in  spite  of  all  their  precautions.” 

“ Your  majesty  may  be  certain  that  to-morrow  he  will  be  arrested 
and  again  in  your  power.” 

“You  have  then  ordered  him  to  be  taken  from  Count  Hoditz  ? ” 

* No,  sire;  but  so  soon  as  I come  toNeisse,  I will  send  four  resolute 
and  shrewd  men ” 

“ I forbid  you  to  do  so.  Ca  the  contrary,  ascertain  all  about  him. 
If  his  ffcmily  has  been  victimized  by  war  as  his  words  seemed  to  lndi» 
e&ia,  tee  that  there  be  paid  him  one  thousand  rl  s dollars,  and  instruct 


e osesnan*. 


M? 

the  recruiting  officers  in  Silesia,  to  let  him  alone.  Do  you  understand 
me  ? His  name  is  Karl ; he  is  a Bohemian,  and  in  the  service  of  Count 
Hoditz.  That  is  enough  to  enable  you  to  recognise  him  easily,  and  to 
ascertain  his  family,  name,  and  circumstances/’ 

“ Your  majesty  shall  be  obeyed.” 

“ I hope  so.  What  did  you  think  of  Porpora?  ” 

“ He  seemed  to  me  a fool : very  vain  and  very  self-sufficient  He  la 
-tempered,  too.” 

“ I think  in  his  art  he  is  a very  superior  man ; fall  of  intellect,  and 
most  amusingly  ironical.  When  he  has,  with  his  pupil,  reached  the 
Prussian  frontier,  send  a carriage  to  meet  him.” 

“ Yes,  sire.” 

“ Make  him  get  into  it,  alone.  You  understand  ? ” 

“ Yes,  sire.” 

“ And  then  ? ” 

“ Your  majesty  wishes  him  taken  to  Berlin?  ” 

“ You  have  lost  your  brains  to-day.  Take  him  to  Dresden,  and 
thence  to  Prague,  or  any  where  else  he  pleases,  even  to  Vienna. 
Since  I have  disturbed  the  arrangement  of  so  honorable  a man,  I 
must  send  him  to  the  place  he  came  from  without  costing  him  any 
•fcing.  I do  not  wish  him  to  put  his  foot  in  my  kingdom.” 

“What  are  your  msyesty’s  orders  about  the  singer?  ” 

“ Take  her,  under  an  escort,  whether  she  wishes  to  go  or  not,  te 
4ans  Souciy  and  give  her  a room  in  the  palace.” 

“ In  the  palace,  sire  ? ” 

“ Yes ; are  you  deaf?  Give  her  the  rooms  of  la  Barberini.” 

“ What  shall  we  do  with  the  Barberini  ? ” 

“The  Barberini  is  not  at  Berlin.  She  has  gone.  Did  you  not 
know  it?  ” 

“ No,  sire.” 

“ What  then  do  you  know  ? As  soon  as  she  is  there,  tell  me ; never 
mind  what  the  hour  may  be.  You  understand?  These  are  my  first 
orders,  which  I wish  you  to  write  No.  1,  in  the  book  of  my  travelling 
treasury: — the  indemnity  to  Karl,  the  dismissal  of  Porpora,  and  the 
succession  of  Porporina  to  Barberini’s  honors  and  emoluments.  We 
are  now  at  the  gates  of  the  city.  Get  into  a good  humor,  Budden- 
brock,  and  try,  the  next  time  I wish  to  be  incognito , to  act  less  like  a 
fooL” 


CHAPTER  CL 

Whkk  Porpora  and  Consuelo  reached  Prague,  it  was  extremely 
cold.  The  moon  lighted  up  the  old  city,  which  yet  preserved  the  pic- 
turesque and  warlike  aspect  of  its  history.  Our  travellers  entered  it 
by  the  gate  called  Rosthor,  and  crossing  that  part  on  the  right  bank 
of  the  Moldau,  reached  the  centre  of  the  Bridge  without  difficulty. 
Just  there,  the  carriage  was  violently  arrested. 

“ Heavens ! ” said  the  postilion,  “ ray  horse  has  stopped  at  the 
statue : that  is  a bad  sign.  Saint  John  Nepomuck,  aid  me ! ” 

Consuelo,  seeing  that  the  wheel-horse  was  embarrassed  in  hla 
traces,  and  that  some  time  would  be  needed  to  fix  things  again,  pro- 
moted to  the  saestro  to  dismoui.t,  and  warm  themselves  by  exarch* 


COHgtJBtO, 


CM 

Th«  Maestro  consented,  and  they  approached  the  parapet  to  see 
where  they  were.  From  that  point,  the  two  distinct  cities  which 
compose  Prague,  of  which  one,  called  the  new,  was  built  by  Charles 
IV,  in  1348,  the  other,  much  older,  and  built  like  ampitkeatres, 
•eemed  two  dark  mountains  of  stone.  Here  and  there,  fYom  the  cul- 
minating points,  arose,  like  arrows  in  the  air,  old  church  spires  and 
dentelated  fortifications.  The  Moldau  whirled  rapidly  under  the 
arches  of  the  steep,  heavy  bridge,  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so 
many  events  of  Bohemian  history.  The  reflection  of  the  moon 
played  around  the  brow  of  the  venerated  statue.  Consuelo  gazed  at 
the  statue  of  the  venerated  doctor,  who  looked  apparently  at  the 
waves.  The  legend  of  Saint  Nepomuck  is  beautiful,  and  his  name  is 
venerated  by  all  who  love  liberty  and  independence.  A confessor  of 
the  Empress  Jane,  he  refused  to  betray  the  confessions,  and  the 
drunken  Wenceslaus,  who  wished  to  become  possessed  of  a woman’s 
secrets,  unable  to  influence  the  doctor,  had  him  drowned  beneath  the 
bridge  of  Prague.  Tradition  says,  just  as  he  sank  beneath  the  waters, 
five  stars  floated  on  the  water,  as  if  he  had  left  the  crown  of  martyr- 
dom behind.  In  memory  of  this,  five  stars  have  been  incrusted  on 
the  balustrade,  at  the  very  spot  he  disappeared. 

La  Rosmunda,  who  was  very  devout,  preserved  .a  holy  memory  of 
this  legend  of  John  Nepomuck,  and  in  the  enumeration  of  the  saints 
she  made  her  pure  child  invoke  every  night,  had  never  forgotten  this, 
the  patron  of  all  journeyers,  of  persons  in  danger,  and  the  protector 
of  fair  fame.  Thus,  as  the  poor  dream  of  boundless  wealth,  the  Zin- 
gari  made  an  ideal  of  what  in  her  youth  she  had  neglected.  This  had 
its  influence  on  Consuelo,  who  knelt  amid  the  crowd  of  women,  pil- 
grims, beggars,  and  zingari,  children  of  the  mandoline,  who  now  did 
homage  to  the  saint,  and  their  piety  was  so  great,  that  she  could  not  but 
reach  forth  her  hand  to  them.  She  gave  them  large  alms,  and  re- 
called the  time  when  she  had  been  destitute  as  they  were.  Her  gen- 
erosity was  so  great  that  they  consulted  together,  and  deputed  two  of 
their  number  to  tell  her  they  were  about  to  sing  one  of  the  hymns  of 
the  blessed  John  Nepomuck,  that  the  saint  might  avert  the  bad  omen 
which  had  detained  them  there.  According  to  what  they  said,  the 
music  and  words  were  old  as  the  days  of  Wenceslas. 

“ Susplce  quas  dedimus  Johannes  beat©, 

Tibi  preces  eupplices,  noster  advocate, 

Fieri;  dum  vivimus  ne  sinas  infames, 

Et  nostros  post  obitum  coelis  infer  manes.** 

Porpora  was  glad  to  hear  them,  but  did  not  think  the  hymn  more 
than  a century  old.  He  heard  a second  one,  though,  which  seemed 
to  be  a malediction  addressed  to  Wenceslas,  by  his  contemporaries  and 
which  began  thus : 

“Saevns  piger  imperator 
Malorum  clarus  patrator.** 

Though  Wenceslas’  crimes  had  done  no  especial  harm,  it  seemel, 
that  the  Bohemians  took  exquisite  delight  in  cursing  in  the  name  of 
this  tyrant,  the  abhorred  name  of  imperator,  synonymous  to  them 
with  Stranger.  There  was  an  Austrian  sentinel  at  each  end  of  the 
bridge,  and  their  orders  required  them  to  walk  to  the  statue,  face  abou|, 
ai3d  return  the  tetes  de  point , They  were  not  such  good  Latin 
scholars  as  is&.  ^out  people  of  Prague,  and  fancied,  perhaps,  they 
heard  a praise  os  isAria  Theresa  >r  Francis  of  Loraine,  her  husband 


C O .N  S U E I,  O. 


SOI 


Am  Am  heard  these  chants  in  the  moonlight,  in  one  of  the  moot  po- 
etical spots  in  the  world,  Consuelo  felt  deeply  penetrated  with  melan- 
choly. Hitherto  her  voyage  had  been  gay  and  happy;  and,  by  a nat- 
ural reaction,  she  became  at  once  intensely  sad.  The  postilion,  who 
was  reharnessing  with  due  Germanic  slowness,  repeated  from  time  to 
time,  the  words  “ a bad  omen,”  so  that  it  had  its  influence  cc.  Con- 
suelo. Every  prolonged  meditation,  every  deep  reverie  ended  sl  her 
thinking  of  Albert.  She  remembered  that  one  evening  she  had  heard 
the  canoness  invoke  Saint  Nepomuck  aloud,  and  Albert  had  said, 
" That,  aunt,  is  well  enough  for  you  who  have  taken  the  precaution 
to  assure  your  own  salvation  by  an  exemplary  life,  but  I have  often 
seen  persons  sullied  by  crime,  invoke  the  aid  of  this  saint,  to  conceal 
their  hidden  offences  from  man.  Thus  practical  devotees  put  on  the 
mantle  of  deceit,  quite  as  often  as  innocence.”  Just  then  Consuelo 
fancied  she  heard  Albert’s  voice  mingle  in  her  ear  with  the  murmur 
of  evening,  and  the  ripple  of  the  Moldau.  She  asked  what  he,  who, 
perchance,  thought  her  so  depraved,  would  think  if  he  saw  her  pros- 
trated before  the  image  of  the  saint.  Half  in  terror,  she  arose.  Just 
then,  Porpora  said,  “ Come,  all  is  ready.” 

She  followed  him,  and  was  about  to  get  into  the  carriage,  when  a 
large  man,  mounted  on  a horse,  larger  even  in  proportion  than  he 
was,  stopped  short,  dismounted,  and  approaching  her,  seemed  to  look 
at  her  with  a curiosity  which  seemed  almost  impertinent. 

" What  are  you  about,  sir?  ” said  Porpora.  It  may  be  the  fashion 
In  Prague,  to  examine  ladies  in  this  way ; but,  at  all  events,  I am  not 
disposed  to  submit  to  it.” 

The  large  man  took  the  furs  from  his  neck,  still  holding  his  horse 
by  the  bridle.  He  replied  to  Porpora  in  Bohemian,  without  seeing 
that  the  latter  did  not  understand  a word  he  said.  Consuelo,  however, 
struck  by  his  voice,  moved  forward  to  see  distinctly,  and  passing  im- 
mediately between  him  and  Porpora,  said : " Is  it  you,  Baron  von 
Rndolstadt  ? ” 

" Yes,  signora,  it  is  I,  Baron  Frederick,  brother  of  Christian  and 
+ uncle  of  Albert.  And  is  it  really  yourself?  ” said  he,  with  a sigh. 

Consuelo  was  amazed  at  his  air,  and  at  his  cold  manner.  He  had 
always  exhibited  the  most  chivalric  gallantry  to  her,  and  now  did  not 
kiss  his  hand  or  even  touch  his  furred  bonnet.  He  did  but  say,  in 
a remiss  and  almost  careless  air, “ Is  it  really  yourself? — really  ? ” 

" Tell  me  about  .Riesenberg,”  said  Consueio,  with  agitation. 

" I will,  signora — I will.” 

" Well,  baron— tell  me  about  Count  Christian,  and  the  canoness, 
and -” 

"Ah!  yes— I will,”  sal  Frederick,  becoming  more  and  more  stu- 
pefied. 

" And  Count  Albert  ? ” said  Consuelo,  frightened  at  his  expression. 

1 Yes,  yes — Albert— alas ! yes,”  said  the  baron, " I will.” 

He  did  not  speak,  however,  and  stood  almost  motionless  as  the 
statue. 

Porpora  began  to  grow  impatient. . He  was  cold,  and  anxious  to  get 
on.  Besides,  this  meeting,  which  affected  Consueio  very  much,  might 
seriously  alter  his  plans.  — 

"Baron,”  said  he,  “to-morrow  we  will  have  the  honor  to  wait  on 
ypu.  Lee  us  now,  however,  get  some  supper,  and  warm  ourselves. 
That  do  us  more  good  than  compliments,”  added  lie,  between  his 
teeth,  springing  into  the  carriage^  hjto  which  he  had  almost  forced 


CONSUliLO. 


610 

u But,  my  friend,”  said  she,  “ let  me  find  out—” 

* Let  me  alone,”  said  he,  quickly.  “ That  man  is  an  Idiot,  or  tin 
drank,  and  will  keep  us  all  night  on  the  bridge,  without  saying  a word 
we  can  understand.” 

Consuelo  was  in  a terrible  state  3f  anxiety. 

“You  are  not  kind,”  said  she  to  him,  while  the  carriage  was  pass* 
jng  over  the  bridge,  at  the  entrance  of  the  old  city.  M In  one  mo- 
ment, I would  have  heard  what  interests  me  more  than  anything  in 
the  world.” 

“ Ah ! you  have  not  done  with  that  yet  ? ” said  the  maestro. 

“ This  Albert  is  everlastingly  in  your  mind.  They  are  a pleasant 
family  according  to  all  appearance,  and  especially  judging  from  that 
great  fellow  who  has  his  cap  pushed  down  over  his  brow.  He  was 
not  even  civil  enough  to  lift  it  up  when  he  saw  you.” 

“ Into  that  family  you  once  placed  me,  advising  me  to  be  dignified 
and  respectful  as  possible ; therefore  you  must  have  had  the  greatest 
respect  for  it.” 

“ dh  one  point  of  view,  you  obeyed  me  but  too  well.” 

Consuelo  was  about  to  reply : she,  however,  calmed  herself  when 
she  saw  the  baron  had  again  mounted,,  and  apparently  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  follow  the  carriage.  She  found  the  old  noble  at  the  door* 
way,  offering  her  his  hand,  and  doing  all  the  honors  of  the  house,  for  he 
had  ordered  the  postilion  to  take  them  to  his  own  residence,  and  not 
to  an  inn.  Porpora  wished  to  decline  his  hospitality.  Consuelo  and 
the  baron  insisted  on  his  coming  in,  for  the  former  wished  to  clear  up 
all  doubts,  and  at  once  went  into  the  hall. 

“ You  are  here,  signora,”  said  the  baron.  “ I relied  on  you — I had 
expected  you.” 

“ That  is  very  strange,”  said  Consuelo;  “for  I had  told  no  one  of 
my  intention  to  come.  Three  days  ago  we  did  not  expect  to  come 
until  the  day  after  to-morrow.” 

“ This  does  not  amaze  you  than  it  does  me,”  said  the  baron, 
In  a most  desponding  manner. 

4<  Where,  however,  is  the  Bareness  Amelia,”  said  Consuelo,  ashamed 
of  not  having  thought  of  her  early  friend. 

A cloud  came  over  the  face  of  the  Baron  of  Rudolstadt,  and  his 
ruddy  complexion  oecame  at  once  so  deadly  pale  that  Consuelo  was 
alarmed.  He  said,  however,  calmly: — 

44  My  daughter  is  in  Saxony,  with  one  of  my  relations.  She  will  be 
very  sorry  that  she  did  not  see  you.” 

“ And  the  rest  of  your  family,  baron  I May  I ask  about  them?1 
said  Consuelo. 

“ Yes,  you  shall  know  all.  Eat,  Signora,  for  you  must  be  hungry.” 

* I cannot  eat  until  you  relieve  my  anxiety.  Tell  me,  baron,  is  any 
one  of  the  family  dead  ? ” 

* No  one,”  said  the  baron,  sadly,  as  if  he  had  announced  the  extinc- 
tion of  his  whole  household.  He  at  once  began  to  carve  with  the 
solemn  slowness  which  was  always  observed  at  Riesenberg.  Consuelo  ( 
did  not  wish  to  question  him.  The  meal  to  her  seemed  to  consume 
an  infinitude  of  time.  Porpora,  who,  less  uneasy  than  hungry,  sought 
to  talk  with  his  host ; and  the  latter  sought  to  reply  kindly,  and  even 
to  &oestion  him  about  his  plans  and  schemes.  This  exertion  was  evi- 
dently too  much  for  his  power.  He  made  no  reply,  or  renewed  his 
questions  a moment  after  they  had  been  answered. 

Coa&aslo  saw  there  was  something  strange  about  him,  and  yet  wm 


COK8UELO, 


511 

satisfied  that  he  was  not  drunk.  She  did  tot  inquire  whether  this 

sadden  decay  was  the  result  of  inebriation  or  not,  of  malady  or  old 
age.  At  last,  after  two  hours  of  torment,  the  baron,  seeing  that  the 
meal  was  over,  and  after  having,  in  an  air  of  half  amazement,  felt  in 
his  pockets,  took  out  an  open  letter  from  the  canoness,  which  he  gave 
to  Consuelo.  It  was  as  follows: — 

“ We 'are  lost,  dear  brother.  We  have  no  longer  any  hope.  Doc- 
tor Supperville  has  at  last  come  from  Bareith,  and,  after  having  been 
some  days  with  us,  says,  that  we  must  arrange  all  our  family  matters, 
for  Albert  probably  will  not  be  alive  in  ten  days.  Christian,  to  whom 
I have  not  been  able  to  tell  what  the  doctor  says,  yet  flatters  himself. 
But  that  is  not  all ; for  I am  not  sure  that  our  nephew’s  death  is  the 
only  trouble. he  apprehends.  Frederick,  we  are  lost!  Can  we  survive 
such  disasters  ? For  my  own  part,  I can  but  say,  ‘ God’s  will  be 
done ! ’ Come  to  us,  dear  brother,  and  try  to  infuse  courage  in  us,  if 
any  remains  in  your  bosom,  after  your  own  misfortune — which  we 
participate  in,  and  which  adds  to  the  sorrows  of  a family  that  might 
almost  call  itself  cursed.  What  have  we  done  to  deserve  all  this  ? 
May  God  protect  me  from  a want  of  faith  and  submission;  but  really 
there  are  times  when  I think  my  burdens  are  too  great. 

“ Come,  brother : we  expect  you ; and  yet  do  not  leave  Prague 
before  the  eleventh.  I wish  to  charge  you  with  a strange  commission* 
I think  I am  mad  in  doing  so.  I conform,  however,  to  Albert’s 
wishes  blindly.  On  the  eleventh  instant  be  on  the  bridge  of  Prague, 
at  the  foot  of  the  statue.  Stop  the  first  carriage  that  passes,  and  take 
it  to  your  house.  If  on  that  very  night  it  can  leave  for  Riesenberg, 
Albert  perhaps  will  be  saved — at  least,  he  says  it  will  win  him  eternal 
life.  I do  not  know  what  he  means  by  that.  During  the  last  eight 
days  he  has  had  the  most  extraordinary  revelations  of  things  we  know 
nothing  of,  that  I can  no  longer  doubt  he  has  the  gift  of  looking  into 
hidden  things.  He  called  me  this  evening  to  his  bed  side,  and  in  the 
half-stifled  voice  with  which  he  now  speaks,  bade  me  write  to  you 
what  I have  faithfully  done.  Be  there  at  ele  zen,  at  the  foot  of  the 
statue,  and  bring  whomsoever  you  find  in  the  carriage  here  at  once.” 

When  she  had  read  the  letter,  Consuelo  grew  paler  than  the  baron. 
She  arose,  but  immediately  fell  back  in  her  chair,  with  her  hands  con* 
tracted  and  her  teeth  fixed.  She  recovered  her  strength  at  once,  how- 
ever, when  she  arose  and  said  to  the  baron,  whose  torpor  had  re- 
turned— “ Baron,  is  your  carriage  ready  ? Iam  ready  to  set  out  at 
once  1 ” 

The  baron  rose  mechanically  and  left.  He  had  prepared  everything 
in  advance.  The  carriage  was  ready,  the  horses  were  in  the  yard,  but 
he  seemed  a mere  automaton ; and  but  for  Consuelo,  he  would  not 
thought  of  going. 

No  sooner  had  he  left  the  chamber  than  Porpora  took  the  letter 
and  read  it.  He,  too,  became  pale,  and  walked  before  the  stove,  a 
prey  to  a terrible  indisposition,  Thfe  maestro  could  not  but  reproach 
himself  with  all  that  had  happened.  He  had  not  foreseen,  and  saw 
now  that  he  should  have  done  so.  A prey  to  remorse  and  fear,  and 
feeling  overcome  by  the  strange  power  of  divination  which  had  re- 
vealed to  the  invalid  the  possibility  of  seeing  Consuelo,  he  felt  as  if  he 
was  a prey  to  some  strange  dream. 

As  no  organization  was,  in  certain  respects,  more  positive  than  his, 
and  as  no  one  had  a more  tenacious  will,  he  begau  at  once  to  think  of 
t$ is  consequences  of  the  sudden  resolution  Consuelo  had  formed. 


619 


OOKSU1IO* 

VM  much  ©xdted,  struck  his  brow  with  his  hands,  and  walked  np  and 
down  the  room.  He  wrung  every  joint,  found  courage,  arsd,  braving 
suspicion,  bade  Conseulo  to  revive,  .while  he  struck  her  violently. 

“You  wish  to  go,”  said  he.  “ I am  willing.  You  wish  to  sea 
Albert.  You  wish  to  give  him  the  final  blow.  There  is  no  means  of 
avoiding  it.  We  have  two  days  to  spare.  We  should  pass  them  at 
Dresden,  but  we  will  not  be  able  to  rest  there.  If  we  are  not  on  the 
Prussian  frontier  by  the  eighteenth,  we  shall  not  be  able  to  keep  our 
engagements.  The  theatre  opens  on  the  twenty-fifth,  and  if  you  are 
not  ready  I will  have  to  pay  a considerable  fine.  I have  but  half  'she 
necessary  sum,  and  in  Prussia  any  one  who  cannot  pay  goes  to  prison. 
Once  in  prison,  a man  is  forgotten,  and  ten,  twenty  years  await  you — 
until  death  comes.  This  is  what  awaits  me,  if  you  do  not  leave  Rie- 
senberg  at  five  o’clock  on  the  morning  of  the  fourteenth.” 

“ Do  not  be  uneasy,  maestro,”  said  Consuelo,  with  all  the  energy  of 
resolution,  “I  have  already  thought  of  that.  Do  not  make  me  un- 
easy at  Riesenberg,  and  we  leave  at  the  time  you  say.” 

“ You  must  swear  to  do  so.” 

u I will,”  said  she,  shrugging  her  shoulders  impatiently.  “ When 
your  life  or  liberty  are  at  stake,  I fancy  you  need  no  oath.” 

Just  then  the  baron  came  in,  followed  by  an  old  intelligent  servant, 
who  wrapped  him  up  in  a pelisse  as  if  he  had  been  a child,  and  took 
him  to  his  carriage.  They  soon  came  to  Beraun,  and  were  at  Pilsen 
before  daybreak. 


CHAPTER  CIL 

From  Pilsen  to  Tauss  they  went  as  rapidly  as  possible,  but  much 
time  was  lost  by  the  roads  running  through  almost  impenetrable  for- 
ests, in  passing  which  passengers  underwent  more  than  one  danger. 
At  last,  after  travelling  scarcely  more  than  a league  an  hour,  they 
came  to  the  Giants’  Castle.  Consuelo  had  never  had  a more  fatiguing 
or  a more  disagreeable  juurney.  The  Baron  of  Rudolstadt  seemed  al- 
most paralyzed,  so  indolent  and  gouty  had  he  become.  Only  a year 
before,  Consuelo  had  seen  him  strong  as  a boxer.  Then,  his  iron  frame 
was  animated  by  a stout  heart.  He  had  ever  obeyed  his  instincts  ; 
and  at  the  first  impression  of  unexpected  misfortune,  he  had  been 
crushed.  The  pity  with  which  he  inspired  Consuelo  increased  her 
uneasiness.  She  said  to  herself  “ Shall  I find  all  the  inmates  of  Riea- 
cnberg  in  this  condition  ? ” 

The  drawbridge  was  down,  and  the  grating  open.  The  servants 
stood  in  the  hall  with  burning  torches.  JSTo  one  was  able  to  speak  a 
word  to  the  servants.  Porpora,  seeing  that  the  baron  could  scarcely 
walk,  took  him  by  the  arm  and  attempted  to  aid  him,  while  Consuelo 
hurried  rapidly  up  the  main  entrance. 

She  met  the  canoness  in  the  doorway,  and  without  even  pausing  to 
speak  the  common-place  salutations,  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  said — 

“ Follow  me ; we  have  not  a moment  to  lose.  Albert  begins  to  grow 
impatient.  He  has  counted  the  hours  and  minutes  till  your  arrival, 
and  announced  your  approach  a moment  before  we  heard  the  sound 
of  your  carriage  wheels.  He  had  no  doubt  on  his  mind  of  your  com- 
but  be  said,  if  any  accident  should  happen  to  detain  you,  it 


would  be  too  late.  Come,  signora ; and  in  the  name  o*  Heaves  d • 
not  oppose  any  of  his  wishes ; promise  all  he  asks,  pretend  to  love  him, 
and  ii  it  must  be,  practise  a friendLy  deceit.  Albert's  hours  are  num- 
bered, his  life  draws  to  a close.  Endeavor  to  soothe  his  sufferings,  It 
is  all  that  we  ask  of  you.” 

Thus  saying,  Wenceslawa  led  Consuelo  in  the  direction  of  the 
great  saloon. 

“ He  is  up  then— he  is  not  confined  to  his  chamber?”  exclaimed 
Consuelo,  hastily. 

u He  no  longer  rises,  for  he  never  retires  to  bed,”  replied  the  )an- 
oness.  “ For  thirty  days  he  has  sat  in  his  arm-chair  in  the  saloon, 
and  will  not  be  removed  elsewhere.  The  doctor  says  he  must  not  be 
opposed  on  this  point,  and  that  he  would  die  if  he  were  moved.  Take 
courage,  signora,  you  are  about  to  behold  a terribie  spectacle.” 

The  canoness  opened  the  door  of  the  saloon,  and  added— 

“ Fly  to  him ; you  need  not  fear  to  surprise  him,  for  he  expects  you, 
and  has  seen  you  coming  hours  ago.” 

Consuelo  darted  towards  her  betrothed,  who,  as  the  canoness  had 
said,  was  seated  in  a large  arm-chair  beside  the  fire-place.  It  was  no 
longer  a man — it  was  a spectre  which  she  beheld.  His  face  still  beau- 
tiful, notwithstanding  the  ravages  of  disease,  was  as  a face  of  marble. 
There  was  no  smile  on  his  lips — no  ray  of  joy  in  his  eyes.  The  doc- 
tor, who  held  his  arm  and  felt  his  pulse,  let  it  fall  gently,  and  looked 
at  the  canoness,  as  much  as  to  say — “ It  is  too  late.”  Consuelo  knelt 
before  him ; he  looked  fixedly  at  her,  but  said  nothing.  At  last  he 
signed  with  his  finger  to  the  canoness,  who  had  learned  to  interpret 
all  his  wishes.  She  took  his  arms,  which  he  was  no  longer  able  to 
raise,  and  placed  them  on  Consuelo’s  shoulder.  Then  she  made  the 
young  girl  lay  her  head  on  Albert's  bosom,  and  as  the  voice  of  the 
dying  man  was  gone,  he  was  merely  able  to  whisper  in  her  ear — ■“  I 
am' happy.”  He  remained  in  this  position  for  about  two  minutes,  the 
head  of  his  beloved  resting  on  his  bosom,  and  his  lips  pressed  to  her 
raven  hair.  Then  he  looked  at  his  aunt,  and  by  some  hardly  percep- 
tible movement  he  made  her  understand  that  hi&  father  and  his  aunt 
were  both  to  kiss  his  betrothed. 

“ From  my  very  heart  1 ” exclaimed  the  canoness,  embracing  Con- 
suelo with  deep  emotion.  Then  she  raised  her  to  conduct  her  to 
Count  Christian,  whom  Consuelo  had  not  hitherto  perceived. 

Seated  in  a second  arm-chair,  placed  opposite  his  son’s  at  the  othei 
side  of  the  fire-place,  the  old  count  seemed  almost  as  much  weakened 
and  reduced.  He  was  still  able  to  rise,  however,  and  take  a few  steps 
through  the  saloon ; but  he  was  obliged  to  be  carried  every  evening  to 
his  bed,  which  had  been  placed  in  an  adjoining  room.  At  that  mo- 
ment he  held  his  brother’s  hand  in  one  of  his,  and  Porpora’s  in  the 
other.  He  then  left  them  to  embrace  Consuelo  fervently  several  times. 
The  almoner  of  the  chateau  came  also  in  his  turn  to  salute  her,  in 
order  to  gratify  Albert.  He  also  seemed  like  a spectre,  notwithstand- 
standing  his  embonpoint  which  had  only  increased ; but  his  paleness 
was  frightful.  The  habits  of  an  indolent  and  effeminate  life  had  so 
enervated  him  that  he  could  not  endure  the  sorrow  of  others.  The 
canoness  alone  retained  energy  for  all.  A brght,  red  spot  shone  on 
each  cheek,  and  her  eyes  bu~nt  with  a feverish  brightness.  Albert 
alone  appeared  calm.  His  brow  was  calm  as  a sleeping  infant’s,  and 
hia  physical  prostration  did  not  seem  to  have  affected  his  mental 
powers.  He  was  grave,  and  not  like  his  father  and  uncle,  dejected* 


CONSUELO. 


514 

In  tho  midst  of  these  different  victims  to  disease  or  sorrow,  the  pfej* 
fiician’s  calm  and  healtliftd  countenance  offered  a striking  contrast  te 
all  that  surrounded  him.  Supperville  was  a Frenchman  who  had  for- 
merly been  attached  to  the  household  of  Frederick  when  the  lattei 
was  only  crown  prince.  Early  aware  of  the  despotic  fault-finding 
turn  which  lurked  in  the  prince,  he  fixed  himself  at  Bareith,  in  the 
service  of  Sophia  Wilhelmina,  sister  to  the  King  of  Prussia.  At  once 
Jealous  and  ambitious,  Supperville  was  the  very  model  of  a courtier. 
An  indifferent  physician,  in  spite  of  the  local  reputation  he  enjoyed, 
he  was  a complete  man  of  the  world,  a keen  observer,  and  tolerably 
conversant  with  the  moral  springs  of  disease.  He  had  urged  the  can- 
oness  to  satisfy  all  the  desires  of  her  nephew,  and  had  hoped  some- 
thing from  the  return  of  her  for  whom  Albert  was  dying.  But,  however 
he  might  reckon  his  pulse  and  examine  his  countenance  after  Consue- 
lo’s  arrival,  he  did  not  the  less  continue, to  reiterate  that  the  time  was 
past,  and  he  determined  to  take  his  departure,  in  order  not  to  witness 
scenes  of  despair  which  it  was  no  longer  in  his  power  to  avert. 

He  resolved,  however,  whether  in  conformity  with  some  interested 
scheme,  or  merely  to  gratify  his  natural  taste  of  intrigue,  to  make 
himself  busy  in  family  affairs ; and  seeing  that  no  person  in  this  be- 
wildered family  thought  of  turning  the  passing  moments  to  account, 
he  led  Consuelo  into  the  embrasure  of  a window,  and  addressed  her 
as  follows : — 

“ Mademoiselle,  a doctor  is  in  some  sort  a confessor,  and  I therefore 
soon  became  aware  of  the  secret  passion  which  hurries  this  young  man 
to  the  grave.  As  a medical  man,  accustomed  habitually  to  investigate 
the  laws  of  the  physical  world  which  do  not  really  vary,  I must  say 
that  I do  not  believe  in  the  strange  vision  and  ecstatic  revelations  of 
the  young  count.  As  regards  yourself,  it  is  easy  to  ascribe  them  ta 
secret  communication  with  you,  relative  to  your  journey  to  Prague 
and  your  subsequent  arrival  here.” 

And  as  Consuelo  made  a sign  in  the  negative,  he  continued: 

u I do  not  question  you,  mademoiselle,  and  my  conjectures  need  not 
offend  you.  Rather  confide  in  me,  and  look  upon  me  as  entirely  de- 
voted to  your  interests.” 

“ I do  not  understand  you,  sir,”  replied  Consuelo,  with  a candor 
which  was  far  from  convincing  the  court  doctor. 

“ Perhaps  you  will  understand  presently  mademoiselle,”  he  coolly 
rejoined.  “ The  young  count’s  relations  have  vehemently  opposed  the 
marriage  up  to  this  day.  But  now  their  opposition  is  at  an  end.  Al- 
bert is  about  to  die,  and  as  he  wishes  to  leave  you  his  fortune,  thev 
cannot  object  to  a religious  ceremony  that  will  secure  it  to  you  for 
ever.” 

“ Alas ! what  matters  Albert’s  fortune  to  me,”  said  the  bereaved 
Consuelo ; u what  has  that  to  do  with  his  present  situation  ? It  is  not 
business  that  brings  me  here,  sir ; I came  to  endeavor  to  save  him. 
Is  there  no  hope  then  ? ” 

“ None  1 This  disease,  entirely  proceeding  from  the  mind,  is  amongst 
those  which  baffles  all  our  skill.  It  is  not  a month  since  the  young 
eount,  after  an  absence  of  fifteen  days,  the  cause  of  which  no  one 
could  explain,  returned  to  his  home  attacked  by  a disease  at  once  sud- 
den and  incurable.  All  the  functions  of  life  were  as  if  suspended. 
For  thirty  days  he  has  swallowed  no  sort  of  food ; and  it  is  a rare  ex' 
eeption,  only  witnessed  in  the  case  of  the  insane,  to  see  life  supported 
vy  * fow  drops  of  liquid  daily,  and  a few  minutes  sleep  each  night.  His 


CONSUELO, 


51& 


vital  power?,  as  you  perceive,  are  now  quite  exhansted,  and  in  a couple 
ef  days  at  the  farthest  he  will  have  ceased  to  suffer.  Arm  yourself 
with  courage  then ; do  not  lose  your  presence  of  mind.  I 'am  here  to 
aid  you,  and  you  have  only  to  act  boldly.” 

Consuelo  was  still  gazing  at  the  doctor  with  astonishment,  when  the 
Canoness,  on  a sign  from  the  patient,  interrupted  their  colloquy  by 
lummoning  him  to  Albert’s  side. 

On  his  approach,  Albert  whispered  in  his  ear  for  a longer  period 
than  his  feebleness  would  have  seemed  to  permit.  Supperville  turned 
red  and  pale  alternately.  The  canoness  looked  at  them  anxiously, 
burning  to  know  what  wish  Albert  expressed. 

44  Doctor,”  said  Albert,  “ I heard  all  you  said  just  now  to  that  young 
lady.” 

The  doctor,  who  had  spoken  in  a low  whisper  and  at  the  farthest 
extremity  of  the  saloon,  became  exceedingly  confused  at  this  remark, 
and  his  convictions  respecting  the  impossibility  of  any  superhuman 
faculty  were  so  shaken  that  he  stared  wildly  at  Albert,  unable  to  utter 
a word. 

44  Doctor,”  continued  the  dying  man,  44  you  do  not  understand  that 
heavenly  creature’s  soul,  and  you  only  interfere  with  my  design  by 
alarming  her  delicacy.  She  shares  none  of  your  ideas  respecting 
money.  She  never  coveted  my  fortune  or  my  title.  She  never  loved 
me,  and  it  is  to  her  pity  alone  you  must  appeal.  Speak  to  her  heart. 
I am  nearer  my  end  than  you  suppose ; lose  no  time.  I cannot  expire 
happy  if  I do  not  carry  with  me  into  the  night  of  my  repose  the  title 
of  her  husband.” 

44  But  what  do  you  mean  by  these  last  words,”  said  Supperville,  who 
at  that  moment  was  solely  busied  in  analyzing  the  mental  disease  of 
his  patient. 

44  You  could  not  understand  them,”  replied  Albert,  with  an  effort, 
44  but  she  will  understand  them.  You  have  only  to  repeat  them  faith- 
fully to  her.” 

44  Count,”  said  Supperville,  raising  his  voice  a little,  44  I find  I cannot 
succeed  in  interpreting  your  ideas  clearly;  you  have  just  spoken  with 
more  force  and  distinctness  than  you  have  done  for  the  last  eight  days, 
and  I cannot  but  draw  a favorable  augury  from  it.  Speak  to  made- 
moiselle yourself;  a word  from  you  will  convince  her  more  than  all  I 
could  say.  There  she  is ; let  her  take  my  place  and  listen  to  you.” 

Supperville  in  fact  found  himself  completely  at  fault  in  an  affair 
which  he  thought  he  had  understood  perfectly ; and  thinking  he  had 
said  enough  to  Consuelo  to  insure  her  gratitude  in  the  event  of  her 
realizing  the  fortune,  he  retired,  after  Albert  had  further  said  to 
him : — 

44  Remember  what  you  promised.  The  time  has  arrived ; speak  to 
my  relatives.  Let  them  consent,  and  delay  not.  The  hour  is  at  hand.” 

Albert  was  so  exhausted  *y  the  effort  he  had  just  made,  that  he  leaned 
Ms  forehead  on  Consuelo’s  breast  when  she  approached  him,  and  re- 
sained  for  some  moments  in  this  position,  as  if  at  the  point  of  death. 
His  white  lips  turned  livid,  and  Porpora,  terrified,  feared  that,  he  had 
uttered  his  last  sigh.  During  this  time  Supperville  had  collected 
Count  Christian,  the  baron,  the  canoness,  and  chaplain,  round  the 
fire-place,  and  addressed  them  earnestly.  The  chaplain  was  the  only 
prion  who  ventured  on  an  objection,  which,  although  apparently 
mint,  was  in  reality  as  powerful  as  the  old  priest  could  urge. 

* U your  excellencies  demand  it,”  said  he,  44 1 shall  lend  say  sacred 


/ 


616  OOSBDELO. 

ftmcUons  to  the  celebration  of  this  marriage.  But  Count  Albert,  j ad 
being  at  present  in  a state  of  grace,  must  first  through  confession  an* 
extreme  unction  make  his  peace  with  the  church.” 

M Extreme  unction  I ” said  the  canonessr,  with  a stifled  groan. 
“ Gracious  God ! is  it  come  to  that  ? ” 

“ It  is  even  so,”  replied  Supperville,  who,  as  a i aan  of  the  world 
and  a disciple  of  the  Voltaire  school  of  philosophy,  detested  both  the 
chaplain  and  his  objections;  “ yes,  it  is  even  so,  and  without  remedy* 
if  his  reverence  the  chaplain  insists  on  this  point,  and  is  bent  on  tor- 
menting Count  Albert  by  the  dreary  apparatus  of  death.” 

“ And  do  you  think,”  said  Count  Christian,  divided  between  hi» 
sense  of  devotion  and  his  paternal  tenderness,  “ that  a gayer  cere- 
mony, and  one  more  congenial  with  his  wishes  might  prolong  his 
days  ? ” 

“ I can  answer  positively  for  nothing,”  replied  Supperville,  “ but  I 
venture  to  anticipate  much  good  from  It.  Your  excellency  consented 
to  this  marriage  formerly.” 

“ I always  consented  to  it.  I never  opposed  it,”  said  the  count  de- 
signedly  raising  his  voice ; “ it  was  Master  Porpora  who  wrote  to  say 
that  he  would  never  consent,  and  that  she  likewise  had  renounced  all 
idea  of  it.  Alas ! ” he  added,  lowering  his  voice,  “ it  was  the  death 
blow  to  my  poor  child.” 

“ You  hear  what  my  father  says,”  murmured  Albert  in  Consuelo’s 
ear,  “ but  do  not  grieve  for  it  I believed  you  had  abandoned  me, 
and  I gave  myself  up  to  despair;  but  during  the  last  eight  days  I 
have  regained  my  reason,  which  they  call  my  madness.  I have  read 
hearts  as  others  open  books — I have  read,  with  one  glance,  the  past, 
the  present,  and  the  future.  I learned,  in  short,  that  you  were  faith- 
ful, Consuelo ; that  you  had  endeavored  to  love  me ; and  that  you  had, 
indeed,  for  a time  succeeded.  But  they  deceived  us  both ; forgive 
your  master,  as  I forgive  him.” 

Consuelo  looked  at  Porpora,  who  could  not  indeed  catch  Albert’s 
words,  but  who,  on  hearing  those  of  Count  Christian,  was  much  agi- 
tated, and  walked  up  and  down  before  the  fire  with  hurried  strides. 
She  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  solemn  reproach ; and  the  maestro 
understood  her  so  well  that  he  struck  his  forehead  violently  with  his 
clenched  hand.  Albert  signed  to  Consuelo  to  bring  the  maestro  close 
to  his  couch,  and  to  assist  him  to  hold  out  his  hand.  Porpora  pressed 
the  cold  fingers  to  his  lips,  and  burst  into  tears.  His  conscience  re- 
proached him  with  homicide ; but  his  sincere  and  heartfelt  repentance 
palliated  in  some  measure  his  fatal  error. 

Albert  made  a . sign  that  he  wished  to  listen  what  reply  his  relations 
made  to  the  doctor,  and  he  heard  it,  though  they  spoke  so  low  that 
Porpora  and  Consuelo,  who  were  kneeling  by  his  side,  could  not  dis- 
tinguish a word. 

The  chaplain  withstood,  as  well  as  he  could,  Supperville’s  bitter 
irony,  while  the  canoness  sought  by  a mixture  of  superstition  and 
tolerance,  of  Christian  charity  and  maternal  tenderness,  to  conciliate 
what  was  irreconcileable  to  the  Catholic  faith.  The  question  wras  mere- 
ly one  of  form — that  is  to  say,  whether  the  chaplain  would  consider  it 
right  to  administer  the  marriage  sacrament  to  a heretic,  unless  indeed 
the  latter  would  conform  to  the  Catholic  faith  immediately  afterwards. 
Supperville  indeed  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  Count  Albert  had  pro- 
mised to  profess  and  believe  anything  after  the  ceremony  was  over; 
but  the  cUai/ain  was  n#  t to  be  duped.  At  last,  Count  Christian,  call- 


CONSUELO, 


517 

ing  to  his  aid  that  quiet  firmness  and  plain  good  sense  with  which) 
although  after  much  weakness  and  hesitation,  he  had  always  put  an 
end  to  domestis  differences,  spoke  as  follows: — 

“Reverend  Sir,”  said  he  to  the  chaplain,  “ there  is  no  eccleslasttc4 
law  which  expressly  forbids  the  marriage  of  a Catholic  to  a schismatic. 
The  church  tolerates  these  alliances.  Consider  Consuelo  then  as  or- 
thodox, my'  son  as  a heretic,  and  marry  them  at  once.  Confession 
and  betrothal,  as  you  are  aware,  are  but  matters  of  precept,  and  in 
certain  cases  may  be  dispensed  with.  Some  favorable  change  may  re- 
sult from  this  marriage,  and  when  Albert  is  cured  it  will  then  be  time 
to  speak  of  his  conversion.’’ 

The  chaplain  had  never  opposed  the  wishes  of  Count  Christian,  who 
was  in  his  eyes  a superior  arbiter  in  cases  of  conscience  even  to  the 
pope  himself.  There  only  now  remained  to  convince  Consuelo.  This 
Albert  alone  thought  of,  and  drawing  her  towards  him,  he  succeeded 
in  clasping  the  neck  of  his  beloved  with  his  emaciated  and  shadowy 
arms. 

“ Consuelo,”  said  he,  “ I read  at  this  hour  in  your  soul  that  you 
would  give  your  life  to  restore  mine.  That  is  no  longer  possible ; but 
you  can  restore  me  forever  by  a simple  act  of  your  will.  I leave  you 
for  a time,  but  I shall  soon  return  to  earth  under  some  new  form.  I 
shall  return  unhappy  and  wretched  if  you  now  abandon  me.  You 
know  that  the  crimes  of  Ziska  still  remain  unexpiated,  and  you  alone, 
my  sister  Wanda,  can  purify  me  in  the  new  phase  of  my  existence. 
We  are  brethren,  to  become  lovers,  death  must  cast  his  gloomy  shadow 
between  us.  But  we  must,  by  a solemn  engagement,  become  man  and 
wife,  that  in  my  new  birth  I may  regain  my  calmness  and  strength,  and 
become,  like  other  men,  freed  from  the  dreary  memories  of  the  past. 
Only  consent  to  this  engagement;  it  will  not  bind  you  in  this  life, 
which  I am  about  to  quit,  but  it  will  unite  us  in  eternity.  It  will  be  a 
pledge  whereby  we  can  recognize  each  other,  should  death  affect  the 
clearness  of  our  recollections.  Consent;  it  is  but  a ceremony  of  the 
church  which  I accept,  since  it  is  the  only  one  which  in  the  estima- 
tion of  men  can  sanction  our  mutual  relation.  This  I must  carry 
with  me  to  the  tomb.  A marriage  without  the  assent  of  my  family 
would  be  incomplete  in  my  eyes.  Ours  shall  be  indissoluble  in  oui 
hearts,  as  it  is  sacred  in  intention.  Consent ! ” 

“ I consent ! ” exclaimed  Consuelo,  pressing  her  lips  to  the  pale,  cold 
forehead  of  her  betrothed. 

These  words  were  heard  by  all. 

“ Well,”  said  Supperville,  “ let  us  hasten;  ” and  he  urged  the  chap 
lain  vigorously,  who  summoned  the  domestics  and  gave  them  instruc- 
tions to  have  everything  prepared  for  the  ceremony.  Count  Christian, 
a little  revived,  sat  close  beside  his  son  and  Consuelo.  The  good  can- 
oness  thanked  the  latter  warmly  for  her  condescension,  and  was  so 
much  affected  as  even  to  kneel  before  her  and  kiss  her  hands.  Baron 
Frederick  wept  in  silence,  without  appearing  to  know  what  was  going 
on.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  an  altar  was  erected  in  the  great  sa- 
loon. The  domestics  were  dismissed;  they  thought  it  was  only  the 
last  rites  of  the  church  which  were  about  to  be  administered,  and 
that  the  patient  required  silence  and  fresh  air.  Porpora  and  Supper- 
ville  served  as  witnesses.  Albert  found  strength  sufficient  to  pro- 
nounce the  iecisive  yes  and  the  other  forms  which  the  ceremony  ro- 
quired,  in  a clear  and  sonorous  voice,  and  the  family  from  this  r* 
©eived  a lively  hope  of  his  recovery.  Hardly  had  the  chaplain  recite# 


618 


the  dosing  prayer  oyer  the  newly-married  couple,  ere  Albert  aatoe^ 
threw  himself  into  his  father’s  arms  and  embraced  him,  as  well  as  hie 
aunt,  his  uncle,  and  Porpora,  earnestly  and  rapidly ; then  seating  him- 
self  in  his  arm-chair,  he  pressed  Consuelo  to  his  heart  and  ex* 
claimed : — 

“ I am  saved ! ” 

“ It  is  the  final  effort,  the  last  convulsion  of  nature,”  said  Supper 
ville,  who  had  several  times  examined  the  features,  and  felt  the  pals* 
of  the  patient,  while  the  marriage  ceremony  was  proceeding. 

In  fact  Albert’s  arms  loosed  their  hold,  fell  forward,  and  rested  on 
his  knees.  His  aged  and  faithful  dog,  Cynabre,  who  had  not  left  his 
feet  during  the  whole  period  of  his  illness,  raised  his  head  and  uttered 
thrice  a dismal  howl.  Albert’s  gaze  was  rivetted  on  Consuelo ; his 
lips  remained  apart  as  if  about  to  address  her ; a faint  glow  animated 
his  cheek,  and  then  gradually  that  peculiar  and  indescribable  shade 
which  is  the  forerunner  of  death,  crept  from  his  forehead  down  to 
his  lips,  and  by  degrees  overshadowed  his  whole  face  as  with  a snowy 
veil.  The  silence  of  terror  which  brooded  over  the  breathless  and 
attentive  group  of  spectators  was  interrupted  by  the  doctor,  who,  in 
solemn  accents,  pronounced  the  irrevocable  decree — “ It  is  the  hand 
of  death  1 ” 


CHAPTER  CHL 

Count  Christian  fell  back  senseless  In  his  chair.  The  canoness, 
sobbing  convulsively,  flung  herself  on  Albert’s  remains,  as  if  she 
hoped  by  her  caresses  to  rouse  him  to  life  again,  while  Baron  Freder- 
ick uttered  some  unmeaning  words  with  a sort  of  idiotic  calm.  Sup- 
perville  approached  Consuelo,  whose  utter  immobility  terrified  him 
more  than  the  agitation  of  the  others. 

“ Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  me,  sir,”  she  said ; “ nor  you  either, 
my  friend,”  added  she,  addressing  Porpora,  who  hastened  to  add  his 
condolence,  " but  remove  his  unhappy  relatives,  and  endeavor  to  sus- 
tain and  comfort  them ; as  for  me,  I shall  remain  here.  The  dead 
need  nothing  but  respect  and  prayers.” 

The  count  and  the  baron  suffered  themselves  to  be  led  away  with- 
out resistance ; and  as  for  the  canoness,  she  was  carried,  cold  and 
apparently  lifeless,  to  her  apartment,  where  Supperville  followed  to 
give  assistance.  Porpora,  no  longer  knowing  where  he  was  or  what 
he  did,  rushed  out  and  wandered  through  the  gardens  like  an  insane 
person.  He  felt  as  if  suffocated.  His  habitual  insensibility  was  more 
apparent  than  real.  Scenes  of  grief  and  terror  had  excited  his  im- 
pressionable imagination,  and  he  hastened  onward  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  pursued  by  gloomy  voices  which  chaunted  a frightful  Dieu  irce 
incessantly  in  his  ears. 

Consuelo  remained  alone  with  Albert ; for  hardly  had  the  chaplain 
begun  to  recite  the  prayers  for  the  dead,  when  he  fainted  away,  and 
was  borne  off  in  his  turn.  The  poor  man  had  insisted  on  sitting  up 
along  with  the  canoness  during  the  whole  of  Albert’s  illness,  and  was 
utterly  exhausted.  The  Countess  of  Rudolstadt,  kneeling  by  the  side 
of  her  husband,  and  holding  his  cold  hands  in  hers,  her  head  pressed 
against  his  which  beat  no  longer,  fell  into  deep  abstraction*  What  Can* 


COH8CRLO.  119 

Mato  experienced  a,  this  moment  was  not  exactly  pain ; at  toast  it  vm 
not  that  bitter  regret  which  accompanies  the  loss  of  beings  necessary 
to  onr  daily  happiness.  Her  regard  for  Albert  was  not  of  this  intimate 
character,  and  his  death  left  no  apparent  void  in  her  existence.  The 
despair  of  losing  those  whom  we  love,  not  unfrequently  resolves  it- 
aelf  into  selfishness  and  abhorrence  of  the  new  duties  imposed  upon 
ns.  One  part  of  this  grief  is  legitimate  and  proper ; the  other  is  not 
so,  and  it  should  be  combated,  though  it  is  just  as  natural.  Nothing 
of  all  this  mingled  with  the  solemn  and  tender  melancholy  of  Consu- 
elo.  Alberti  nature  was  foreign  to  her  own  in  every  respect,  except 
in  one — the  admiration,  respect,  and  sympathy  with  which  he  had 
inspired  her.  She  had  chalked  out  a plan  of  life  without  him,  and 
had  even  renounced  the  idea  of  an  affection  which,  until  two  days 
before,  she  had  thought  extinct.  What  now  remained  to  her  was  the 
desire  and  duty  of  proving  faithful  to  a sacred  pledge.  Albert  had 
been  already  dead  as  regarded  her;  he  was  now  nothing  more,  and 
was  perhaps  even  less  so  in  some  respects,  for  Consuelo,*  long  exalted 
by  intercourse  with  his  lofty  soul,  had  come  in  her  dreamy  reverie  to 
adopt  in  a measure  some  of  his  poetical  convictions.  The  belief  in 
the  transmission  of  souls  had  received  a strong  foundation  in  her  in- 
stinctive repugnance  towards  the  idea  of  eternal  punishment  after 
death,  and  in  her  Christian  faith  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  Al- 
bert, alive,  but  prejudiced  against  her  by  appearances,  seemed  as  if 
wrapped  in  a veil,  transported  into  another  existence  incomplete  in 
comparison  with  that  which  he  had  proposed  to  devote  to  yure  and 
lofty  affection  and  unshaken  confidence.  But  Albert,  resto/f  ti  to  this 
faith  in  her  and  to  his  enthusiastic  affection,  and  yielding  up  his  last 
breath  on  her  bosom — had  he  then  ceased  to  exist  as  regarded  her  ? 
Did  he  not  live  in  all  the  plenitude  of  a cloudless  existence  in  passing 
under  the  triumphal  arch  of  a glorious  death,  which  conducted  him 
either  to  a temporary  repose,  or  to  immediate  consciousness  in  a 
purer  and  more  heavenly  state  of  being?  To  die  struggling  with 
one’s  own  weakness,  and  to  awake  endowed  with  strength;  to  die 
forgiving  the  wicked,  and  to  awake  under  the  influence  and  protec- 
tion of  the  upright ; to  die  in  sincere  repentance,  and  to  awake  ab- 
solved and  purified  by  the  innate  influence  of  virtue — are  not  these 
heavenly  rewards  ? 

Consuelo,  already  initiated  by  Albert  into  doctrines  which  had 
their  origin  among  the  Hussites  of  old  Bohemia,  as  well  as  among 
the  mysterious  sects  of  preceding  ages,  who  had  humbly  endeavored 
to  interpret  the  words  of  Christ — Consuelo,  I repeat,  convinced,  more 
from  her  gentle  and  affectionate  nature  than  by  the  force  of  reason- 
ing, that  the  soul  of  her  husband  was  not  suddenly  removed  from 
her  for  ever,  and  carried  into  regions  inaccessible  to  human  sympa- 
thies, mingled  with  this  belief  some  of  the  superstitious  ideas  of  her 
childhood.  She  had  believed  in  spirits  as  the  common  people  believe 
in  them,  and  had  more  than  once  dreamed  that  she  saw  her  mother 
approach  to  protect  and  shield  her  from  danger.  It  was  a sort  of 
belief  in  the  eternal  communion  of  the  souls  of  the  living  and  the 
dead — a simple  and  childlike  faith,  which  has  ever  existed,  as  it  were, 
against  that  creed  which  would  for  ever  separate  the  spirits  of  the 
departed  from  this  lower  world,  and  assign  them  a perfectly  different 
and  far  distant  sphere  of  action. 

Consuelo,  still  kneeling  by  Albert’s  remains,  could  not  bring  herseli 

taitovt  that  be  was  dead,  and  could  not  comprehend  the  dread  nm 


630  OOKBtEIO. 

too  either  of  the  word  or  of  the  reality.  It  did  not  seem  possible 
that  life  conld  pass  away  so  soon,  and  that  the  functions  of  heart  and 
brain  had  ceased  for  ever.  “ No,”  thought  she,  “ the  divine  spark 
still  lingers,  and  hesitates  to  return  to  the  hand  which  gave  it,  and 
who  is  about  to  resume  his  gift  in  order  to  send  it  forth  under  a re- 
newed form  into  some  loftier  sphere.  There  is  still,  perhaps,  a mys- 
terious life  existing  in  the  yet  warm  bosom ; and  besides,  wherever 
the  soul  of  Albert  is,  it  sees,  understands,  knows  all  that  has  taken 
place  here.  It  seeks,  perhaps,  some  aliment  in  my  love — an  impulsive 
power  to  aid  it  in  some  new  and  heavenly  career.”  And,  filled  with 
these  vague  thoughts,  she  continued  to  love  Albert,  to  open  her  soul 
to  him,  to  express  her  devotion  to,  him,  to  repeat  her  oath  of  fidelity 
— in  short,  in  feeling  and  idea,  to  treat  him,  not  as  a departed  spirit 
for  whom  one  wreeps  without  hope,  but  as  a sleeping  friend,  whose 
awakening  smiles  we  joyfully  await. 

When  Porpora  had  become  more  composed,  he  thought  with  terror 
of  the  situation  in  which  he  had  left  his  pupil,  and  hastened  to  rejoin 
her.  He  was  surprised  to  find  her  as  calm  as  if  she  had  watched  by 
the  bedside  of  a sleeping  friend.  He  would  have  spoken  to  her,  and 
urged  her  to  take  some  repose. 

“ Do  not  utter  unmeaning  words,”  said  she,  “ in  presence  of  this 
sleeping  angel.  Do  you  retire  to  rest,  my  dear  master ; I shall  remain 
here.” 

“ Would  you  then  kill  yourself?  ” said  Porpora,  in  despair. 

“ No,  my  friend,  I shall  live,”  replied  Consuelo ; “ I shall  fulfil  all 
my  duties  towards  him  and  towards  you ; but  not  for  one  instant  shall 
I leave  his  side  this  night” 

When  morning  came  all  was  still.  An  overpowering  drowsiness 
bad  deadened  all  sense  of  suffering.  The  physician,  exhausted  by  fa- 
tigue, had  retired  to  rest.  Porpora  slumbered  in  his  chair,  his  head 
supported  on  Count  Christian’s  bed.  Consuelo  alone  felt  no  desire  to 
abandon  her  post.  The  count  was  unable  to  leave  his  bed,  but  Baron 
Frederick,  his  sister,  and  the  chaplain,  proceeded  almost  mechanically 
to  offer  up  their  prayers  before  the  altar ; after  which  they  began  to 
speak  of  the  interment.  The  canoness,  regaining  strength  when 
necessity  required  her  services,  summoned  her  woman  and  old  Hans 
to  aid  her  in  the  necessary  duties.  Porpora  and  the  doctor  then  in- 
sisted on  Consuelo  taking  some  repose,  and  she  yielded  to  their  en- 
treaties, after  first  paying  a visit  to  Count  Christian,  who  apparently 
did  not  recognise  her.  It  was  hard  to  say  whether  he  waked  or  slept, 
for  his  eyes  were  open,  his  respiration  calm,  and  his  face  without  ex- 
pression. 

When  Consuelo  awoke,  after  a few  hours’  repose,  she  returned  to 
the  saloon,  but  was  struck  with  dismay  to  find  it  empty.  Albert  had 
been  laid  upon  a bier,  and  carried  to  the  chapel.  His  arm-chair  was 
empty,  and  in  the  same  position  where  Consuelo  had  formerly  seen  it 
It  was  all  that  remained  to  remind  her  of  him  in  this  place,  where 
every  hope  and  aspiration  of  the  family  had  been  centred  for  so  many 
bitter  days.  Even  his  dog  had  vanished.  The  summer  sun  lighted 
up  the  sombre  wainseoating  of  the  apartment,  while  the  merry  call  of 
the  blackbirds  sounded  from  the  garden  with  insolent  gaiety.  Con- 
suelo passed  on  to  the  adjoining  apartment,  the  door  of  which  was 
haif  opened.  Count  Christian,  who  still  kept  his  couch,  lay  appar- 
ently insensible  to  the  loss  he  had  just  sustained,  and  his  sister 
watched  oyer  him  with  the  same  vigilant  attention  that  she  had  for 


i0ISUBLO. 


521 

Kttriy  shown  to  A 'bort.  The  baron  gazed  at  the  burning  legs  with  a 
stupefied  air;  brt  Mi©  silent  tears  which  trickled  down  his  aged  cheeks 
showed  that  hitter  memory  was  still  busy  with  his  heart. 

Consuelo  approached  the  canoness  to  kiss  her  hand,  but  the  old 
lady  drew  it  back  from  her  with  evident  marks  of  aversion.  Poor 
Wenceslawa  only  beheld  in  her  the  destroyer  of  her  nephew.  At  first 
she  had  held  the  marriage  in  detestation,  and  had  opposed  it  with  all 
her  might:  but  when  she  had  seen  that  time  and  absence  alike  failed 
to  induce  Albert  to  renounce  his  engagement,  and  that  his  reason,  life, 
and  health  depended  on  it,  she  had  come  to  desire  it,  as  much  as  she 
had  before  hated  and  repelled  it.  Porpora’s  refusal,  the  exclusive  pas- 
sion for  the  theatre  which  he  ascribed  to  Consuelo,  and,  in  short,  all 
the  officious  and  fatal  falsehoods  which  he  had  despatched  in  succes- 
sion to  Count  Christian,  without  ever  adverting  to  the  letters  which 
Consuelo  had  written,  but  which  he  had  suppressed — had  occasioned 
the  old  man  infinite  suffering,  and  aroused  in  the  canoness’s  breast 
the  bitterest  indignation.  She  felt  nothing  but  hate  and  contempt  for 
Consuelo.  She  could  pardon  her,  she  said,  for  having  perverted' Al- 
bert’s reason  through  this  fatal  attachment,  but  she  could  not  forgive 
her  for  having  so  basely  betrayed  him:  Every  look  of  the  poor  aunt, 
who  knew  not  that  the  real  enemy  of  Albert’s  peace  was  Porpora, 
seemed  to  say,  “ You  have  destroyed  our  child;  you  could  not  restore 
him  again ; and  now  the  disgrace  of  your  alliance  is  all  that  remains 
to  us.” 

This  silent  depuration  of  war  hastened  Consuelo’s  resolve  to  com- 
fort, so  far  as  mJ'ht  be,  the  canoness  for  this  last  misfortune.  “ May 
I request,”  said  she,  “ that  your  ladyship  will  favor  me  with  a pri- 
vate interview  ? I must  leave  this  to-morrow  ere  daybreak ; but  before 
setting  out  I v euld  fain  make  known  my  respectful  intentions.” 

“ Your  intentions?  Oh,  I can  easily  guess  them,”  replied  the  can- 
oness, bitterly.  “ Do  not  be  uneasy,  mademoiselle,  all  shall  be  as  it 
ought  to  be,  and  the  rights  which  the  law  yields  you  shall  be  strictly 
respected.” 

“ I perceive  you  do  not  comprehend  me,  madam,”  replied  Consuelo. 
“ I therefore  long ” 

“ Well/*  since  I must  drain  the  bitter  cup  to  the  dreg3,”  said  the 
canoness,  rising,  “ let  it  be  now,  while  I have  still  courage  to  endure 
it.  Follow  me,  signora.  My  eldest  brother  appears  to  slumber,  and 
Supperville,  who  has  consented  to  remain  another  day,  will  take  my 
place  for  half  an  hour.” 

She  rang,  and  desired  the  doctor  to  be  sent  for,  then  turning  to  the 
baron—-” 

* Brother,”  said  she,  “ your  cares  are  useless,  since  Christian  is  still 
unconscious  of  his  misfortune.  He  may  never  be  otherwise — happily 
fcr  him,  but  most  unhappily  for  us!  Perhaps  insensibility  is  but  the 
forerunner  of  death.  I have  now  only  you  in  the  world,  my  brother^* 
take  care  of  your  health,  which  this  dreary  inaction  has  only  too 
much  affected  already.  You  were  always  accustomed  to  air  and  exer- 
cise. Go'  out,  take  your  gun,  the  huntsman  will  follow  with  the  dogs. 
Do,  I entreat  you  for  my  sake ; it  is  the  doctor’s  orders,  as  well  as 
your  sister’s  prayer.  Do  not  refuse  me ; it  is  the  greatest  consolation 
you  can  bestow  on  my  unhappy  old  age.” 

The  baron  hesitated,  but  at  last  yielded  the  point.  The  servants 
ted  him  out,  and  V©  fallowed  them  like  a child.  The  doctor  examined 
(torn*  Christian  still  seemed  hardly  conscious,  though  he  an 


GO VgUXLft* 


III 

nrered  any  auestions  which  were  put  to  him  vith  genhe  j&dijitoaMet 
and  appeared  to  recognise  those  around  him.  “ After  all,”  said  Sup* 
perville,  “ he  is  not  so  ill ; and  if  he  pass  a gool  night,  all  may  turn  out 
well.” 

Wenceslawa,  a little  consoled,  left  her  brother  in  the  doctor’s  care, 
and  conducted  Consuelo  to  a large  apartment,  richly  decorated  in  an 
antique  fashion,  where  she  had  never  been  before.  It  contained  a 
large  state-bed,  the  curtains  of  which  had  not  been  stirred  for  more 
than  twenty  years.  It  was  that  in  which  Wanda  Prachalitz,  the 
mother  of  Count  Albert  had  breathed  her  last  sigh,  for  this  had  been 
her  apartment.  “ It  was  here,”  said  the  canoness,  with  a solemn  air, 
after  having  closed  the  door,  “ that  we  found  Albert — it  is  now  two 
and  thirty  days  since — after  an  absence  of  thirteen.  From  that  day 
to  this  he  never  entered  it  again ; nor  did  he  once  quit  the  arm-chair 
where  yesterday  he  expired.” 

The  dry,  cold  manner  with  which  the  canoness  uttered  this  fune- 
real announcement  struck  a dagger  to  Consuelo’s  heart.  She  then 
took  from  her  girdle  her  inseparable  bunch  of  keys,  walked  towards 
a large  cabinet  of  sculptured  oak,  and  opened  both  its  doors.  Con- 
suelo saw  that  it  contained  a perfect  mountain  of  jewels,  tarnished  by 
age,  of  a strange  fashion,  the  larger  portion  antique,  and  enriched  by 
diamonds  and  precious  stones  of  considerable  value.  “ These,”  said 
the  canoness  to  her,  “are  the  family  jewels,  which  were  the  property 
of  my  sister-in-law,  Count  Christian’s  wife,  before  her  marriage ; here, 
in  this  partition,  are  my  grandmother’s,  which  my  brothers  and  my- 
self made  her  a present  of;  and  lastly,  here  are  those  which  her  hus- 
band bought  for  her.  All  these  descended  to  her  son  Albert,  and 
henceforth  belong  to  you,  as  his  widow.  Take  them,  and  do  not  fear 
that  any  one  here  will  dispute  with  you  these  riches,  to  which  we 
attach  no  importance,  and  with  which  we  have  nothing  more  to  do. 
The  title-deeds  of  my  nephew’s  maternal  inheritance  will  be  placed 
In  your  hands  within  an  hour.  All  is  in  order,  as  I told  you ; and  as 
to  those  of  his  paternal  inheritance,  you  will  not,  alas  1 have  proba- 
bly long  to  wait  for  them.  Such  was  Albert’s  last  wishes.  My  pro- 
mise to  act  in  conformity  with  them  had,  in  his  eyes,  all  the  force  of 
a will.” 

u Madam,”  replied  Consuelo,  closing  the  cabinet  with  a movement 
of  disgust,  “ I should  have  torn  the  will  had  there  been  one,  and  I 
pray  you  now  to  take  back  your  word.  I have  no  more  need  than 
you  for  all  these  riches.  It  seems  to  me  that  my  life  would  be  forever 
stained  by  the  possession  of  them.  If  Albert  bequeathed  them  to  me, 
it  was  doubtless  with  the  idea  that  conformably  to  his  feelings  and 
habits,  I would  distribute  them  to  the  poor.  But  I should  be  a bad 
d'spenser  of  these  noble  charities ; I have  neither  the  talents  nor  the 
knowledge  necessary  to  make  a useful  disposition  of  them.  It  is  to 
you,  madam,  who  unite  to  those  qualities  a Christian  spirit  as  gener- 
ous as  that  of  Albert,  it  belongs  to  employ  this  inheritance  in  works 
of  charity.  I relinquish  to  you  my  rights,  (if  indeed  I can  be  said  tc 
~%ve  any,)  of  which  I am  ignorant,  and  wish  always  to  remain  so.  I 
claim  from  your  goodness  only  one  favor,  viz.,  that  you  will  never 
wound  my  feelings  by  renewing  such  offers.” 

The  canoness  changed  her  express  .on,  but  could  not  condescend  to 
admire  her.  She  asked — 

u But  what  do  you  intend  to  do  ” looking  fixedly  at  her.  * Y<m 
Dave  no  fortune.” 


C0N8U  K 1 o.  528 

41 1 teg  your  pardon,  I am  rich  enough.  My  tastes  are  simple,  and 
I am  fond  of  art.” 

“ Then  you  expect  to  resume  what  you  call  your  business  ? ” 

"lam  forced  to  do  so,  madam,  from  reasons  which  do  not  permit 
me  to  hesitate,  notwithstanding  my  present  distress.” 

“ And  you  are  unwilling  to  sustain  your  new  rank  in  society  in  any 
other  manner?  ” 

“ What  rank  ? ” 

“ That  of  Albert’s  widow.” 

“ I never  will  forget  that  I am  the  widow  of  the  noble-hearted  Al- 
oert,  and  my  conduct  shall  be  worthy  of  the  husband  I have  lost.” 

“ But  the  Countess  of  Kudolstadt  expects  to  return  to  the  stage ! 99 
“ There  is  no  Countess  Budolstadt,  nor  will  there  be,  after  you,  ex* 
cept  your  niece,  Amelia.” 

“ Do  you  scoff  at  me  by  mentioning  her  name  ? ” said  the  canoness, 
who  started  as  if  she  had  been  touched  with  a heated  iron.  . 

“ Why,  madam  ? ” said  Consuelo,  and  her  candor  was  too  apparent 
to  per  mit  it  to  be  mistaken,  “ Tell  me,  for  heaven’s  sake,  why  the 
young  baroness  is  not  here  ? Can  she  be  dead,  too  ? ” 

“ No,”  said  the  canoness,  bitterly,  “ would  she  were.  Let  us  not, 
however,  talk  of  her.” 

“ I must,  madam,  remind  you  of  something  I had  not  before 
thought  of  She  i3  the  only  and  lawful  heiress  of  your  family  titles. 
This  must  put  your  mind  at  rest  in  relation  to  Albert’s  depositions. 
The  laws  do  not  permit  you  to  make  any  appropriation  in  my  favor.” 
“ Nothing  can  deprive  you  of  your  rights  as  a dowager,  and  of  a 
title  the  last  will  of  Albert  placed  at  your  disposal.” 

“ Nothing  can  prevent  me  from  renouncing  them.  Albert  was 
aware  that  I wished  to  be  neither  rich  nor  a countess.” 

“ The  world  will  not  permit  you  to  renounce  them.” 
u The  world ! ah  1 that  is  precisely  the  point  I wished  to  get  at. 
The  world  will  not  comprehend  Albert’s  love  nor  his  family’s  kind- 
ness to  such  a poor  girl  as  I am.  It  would  be  a reproach  to  his  mem- 
ory, a stain  to  your  life — it  would  make  me  ridiculous,  perhaps  dis- 
grace me.  I repeat,  the  world  will  understand  nothing  that  has 
passed  between  us.  The  world  must  always  be  ignorant  of  this, 
madam,  as  your  servants  are.  Porpora  and  the  doctor  are  now  the 
only  confidants  in  this  secret  marriage — and  neither  have,  nor  will  di- 
vulge it.  I will  answer  for  the  first,  and  you  can  assure  yourself  of 
the  discretion  of  the  other.  Be  at  ease  then,  madam — for  you  can 
bury  this  secret  with  you,  and  the  Baroness  Amelia  never  will  know 
that  I have  the  honor  of  being  her  cousin.  Forget,  then,  the  scenes 
rf  the  last  hour  of  Count  Albert’s  life,  and  let  me  only  bless  him  and 
De  silent.  You  have  tears  enough  to  shed,  without  my  adding  to  your 
sorrow  and  mortification,  by  reciting  my  existence  to  you  as  the 
widow  of  your  child.” 

“ Consuelo,”  said  the  Canoness  sobbing,  “ remain  with  us.  You 
have  a noble  heart  and  strong  mind.  Do  not  leave  us.” 

“ That  would  be  the  wish  of  my  heart,  which  is  devoted  to  you,” 
said  Consuelo,  receiving  Wenceslawa’s  caresses  with  great  emotion. 
“I  cannot  do  so,  without  our  secret  being  known,  or  guessed  at*„ 
and  that  amounts  to  the  same.  The  honor  of  your  family  is  dearer 
to  me  than  life.  Let  me  wr  *st  myself  from  your  arms  without  any 
delay  or  hesitation,  and  thus  Jo  you  the  only  service  in  my  power.” 
The  torn  the  canoness  shed  at  the  conclusion  of  this  scent, 


534 


COSBUELO. 


relieved  her  from  the  burden  which  oppressed  her.  They  were  the 
first  she  had  shed  since  her  nephew’s  death.  She  consented  to  the 
sacrifices  of  Consuelo,  and  by  her  confidence  proved  that  she  appre- 
ciated her  noble  resolution.  She  left  her  to  tell  the  chaplain  of  it,  and 
to  induce  Supperville  and  Porpora  to  be  silent  about  the  marriage. 


CONCLUSION. 

Consuelo,  finding  herself  at  perfect  liberty,  passed  the  day  in  wan- 
dering about  the  chateau,  the  garden,  and  the  environs,  in  order  to 
revisit  all  the  places  that  recalled  to  her  Albert’s  love.  She  even  al- 
lowed her  pious  fervor  to  carry  her  as  far  as  the  Schreckenstein,  and 
seated  herself  upon  the  stone,  in  that  frightful  solitude  which  Albert 
had  so  long  filled  with  his  grief.  But  she  soon  retired,  feeling  her 
courage  fail  her,  and  almost  imagining  that  she  heard  a hollow  groan 
issuing  from  the  bowels  of  the  rock.  She  dare  not  admit  even  to  hen- 
self  that  she  heard  it  distinctly : Albert  and  Zdenko  were  no  mor*^ 
and  the  allusion,  therefore,  for  it  was  plainly  such,  could  not  prove 
otherwise  than  hurtful  and  enervating.  Consuelo  hurriedly  left  the 
spot. 

On  returning  to  the  fchateau  towards  evening,  she  saw  the  Baron 
Frederick,  who  had  by  degrees  strengthened  himself  on  his  legs,  and 
had  regained  some  animation  in  the  pursuit  of  his  favorite  amusement. 
The  huntsmen  who  accompanied  him  started  the  game,  and  the 
baron,  whose  skill  had  not  deserted  him,  picked  up  his  victims  with 
a deep  sigh. 

“ He,  at  least,  will  live  and  be  consoled,”  thought  the  young  widow. 

The  canoness  supped,  or  affected  to  do  so,  in  her  brother’s  room. 
The  chaplain,  who  had  been  praying  by  the  side  of  the  deceased  in 
the  chapel,  made  an  attempt  to  join  them.  He  had  a fever,  however, 
and  at  the  first  mouthful  felt  sick. — This  offended  Supperville,  who 
was  hungry  and  had  to  let  his  soup  grow  cold  while  he  went  with 
him  to  his  room ; he  could  not  refrain  from  saying — Those  people 
have  no  nerve  1 There  are  but  two  men  here — the  canoness  and  the 
signora!”  He  soon  returned,  resolved  not  to  torment  himself  a 
great  deal  about  the  poor  priest,  and  like  the  baron  played  a good  part 
at  supper.  Porpora  was  much  affected,  though  he  did  not  seem  to  be. 
and  could  neither  eat  nor  speak.  Consuelo  thought  of  the  last  meal 
she  had  eaten  at  the  table  between  Anzoleto  and  Albert. 

After  supper  she  proceeded  along  with  her  master  to  make  the 
necessary  preparations  for  her  departure.  The  horses  were  ordered 
to  be  in  readiness  at  four  in  the  morning.  Before  separating  for  the 
night,  she  repaired  to  Count  Christian’s  apartment.  He  slept  tran- 
quilly, and  Supperville,  who  wished  to  quit  the  dreary  abode,  asserted 
that  he  had  no  longer  any  remains  of  fever. 

“ Is  that  perfectly  certain,  sir?  ” said  Consuelo,  who  was  shocked  at 
bis  precipitation. 

w I assure  you,”  said  he,  u it  is  so.  He  is  saved  for  the  present 
but  I must  warn  you  that  it  will  not  be  long.  At  bis  time  of  life, 
grief  U not  so  deeply  felt  at  the  crisis,  but  the  enemy  merely  give* 
way  to  return  with  greater  force  afterwards.  So  be  on  the  watch,  for 
yoa  are  not  rarely  serious  in  determining  to  surrender  your  rights,* 


co  ii  sci  lo.  &2S 

' 1 wa  perfecJy  serious,”  said  Consuelo,  “ and  I am  astonished 
fcfcat  you  do  not  believe  in  so  simple  a matter.” 

44  Permit  me  to  doubt,  madam,  until  the  death  of  your  fatheMn-law. 
Meantime,  you  have  made  a great  mistake  in  not  taking  possession  of 
*he  jewels  and  title-deeds.  No  matter;  you  have  doubtless  your 
reasons,  which  I do  not  seek  to  know ; for  a person  so  calm  as  you 
are  does  not  act  without  motives.  I have  given  my  word  of  honor 
not  to  disclose  this  family  secret,  and  I shall  keep  my  promise  till  you 
release  me  from  it  My  testimony  may  be  of  service  to  you  when  thfc 
proper  time  comes,  and  you  may  rely  on  my  zeal  and  friendship. 
You  will  always  find  me  at  Bareith,  if  alive ; and  in  this  hope,  count* 
ess,  I kiss  your  hand.” 

Suppervfile  took  leave  of  the  canoness,  after  having  assured  her  of 
his  patients  safety,  written  a prescription,  and  received  a large  fee — 
small,  however,  he  trusted,  in  comparison  with  that  which  he  was  to 
receive  from  Consuelo — and  quitted  the  castle  at  ten  o’clock,  leaving 
the  latter  indignant  at  his  sordidness. 

The  baron  retired  to  rest,  better  than  he  had  been  the  night  before ; 
as  for  the  canoness,  she  had  a bed  prepared  for  herself  beside  Count 
Christian’s.  Consuelo  waited  till  all  was  still;  then  when  twelve 
o’clock  struck  she  lighted  a lamp  and  repaired  to  the  chapel.  At  the 
end  of  the  cloister  she  found  two  of  the  servants,  who  at  first  were 
frightened  at  her  approach,  but  afterwards  confessed  why  they  were 
there.  Their  duty  was  to  watch  a part  of  the  night  beside  the  young 
count’s  remains,  but  they  were  afraid,  and  preferred  watching  and 
praying  outside  the  door. 

44  And  why  afraid  ? ” asked  Consuelo,  mortified  to  find  that  so  gen- 
erous a master  inspired  only  such  sentiments  in  the  breast  of  his  at- 
tendants. 

44  What  would  you  have,  signora?  ” replied  one  of  these  men,  una- 
ware that  he  was  addressing  Count  Albert’s  widow;  “ our  young  lord 
had  mysterious  relations  and  strange  acquaintances  among  the  world 
of  spirits.  He  conversed  with  the  dead,  hd  found  out  hidden  things, 
never  went  to  the  church,  ate  and  drank  with  the  gipsies — in  short, 
no  one  could  say  what  might  happen  to  any  one  who  would  pass  the 
night  in  this  chapel.  It  would  be  as  much  as  our  lives  were  worth. 
Look  at  Cynabre  there ! They  would  not  let  him  into  the  chapel,  and 
he  has  lain  all  day  long  before  the  door  without  moving,  without  eat- 
ing, without  making  the  least  noise.  He  knows  very  well  that  his 
master  is  dead,  for  he  has  never  called  him  once,  but  since  midnight 
was  struck,  see  how  restless  he  is,  how  he  smells  and  whines,  as  if  he 
was  aware  his  master  was  no  longer  alone.” 

44  You  are  weak  fools  I”  replied  the  indignant  Consuelo.  44  If  your 
hearts  were  warmer  your  minds  would  not  be  so  feeble ; ” and  she  en- 
tered the  chapel,  to  the  surprise  and  consternation  of  the  timid  do- 
mestics. 

Albert  lay  on  a couch  covered  with  brocade  with  the  family  es- 
cutcheons embroidered  at  the  corners.  His  head  reposed  on  a black 
velvet  cushion,  sprinkled  with  silver  tears,  while  a velvet  pall  fell  in 
sable  folds  around  him.  A triple  row  of  waxen  tapers  lit  up  his  pale 
face,  which  was  so  calm,  so  pure,  so  manly,  that  a spectator  would  have 
said  he  slept  peacefully.  The  last  of  tlie  Rudolstadts  was  clothed,  ac- 
cording to  family  custom,  in  the  ancient  costume  of  his  fathers.  The 
comet  of  a count  was  on  his  head,  a sword  was  by  his  side,  a buckle? 
at  his  feet,  and  a crucifix  on  his  breast.  With  his  long  black  hair  and 
feard,  he  seemed  one  of  the  ancxmt  warriors  whose  effigies  lay  thick* 


526 


oeviauo, 


hr  scattered  aronnd.  The  pavement  was  strewn  with  flowers,  and  per 
fumes  burned  slowly  in  silver  censers,  placed  at  each  comer  of  his  las! 

sad  resting-place. 

For  three  hours  Consuelo  prayed  for  her  husband,  and  watched  hia 
final  repose.  Death  had  made  his  features  more  sad,  but  so  slightly 
altered  them,  that  often  while  she  admired  his  beauty,  she  forgot  that 
he  was  dead.  She  fancied  even  that  she  had  heard  the  noise  of  his 
breath,  and  when  for  a moment  she  left  to  breathe  the  perfume  of  th* 
censers  and  watch  the  flames  of  the  torches,  she  fancied  that  she  saw 
a vague  tremor  and  heard  the  light  undulation  of  the  drapery.  She 
at  once  drew  near  him,  and  examining  his  mute  mouth  and  pulseless 
heart,  abandoned  all  fugitive  and  desperate  hopes. 

When  the  clock  struck  three,  Consuelo  arose  and  imprinted  on  the 
lips  of  her  husband  the  first  last  kiss  of  love. 

44  Adieu,  Alberti”  exclaimed  she,  completely  carried  away  by  a kind 
of  religious  excitement ; “ now  you  look  directly  into  my  heart.  Ther6 
are  no  clouds  between  us,  and  you  know  how  I love  you.  You  know 
that  I abandon  your  body  to  a family  who  will  look  on  it  without 
emotion,  yet  I do  not  on  that  account  extinguish  an  immortal  mem- 
ory and  deathless  love  of  you.  You  know  that  no  careless  widow, 
but  a kind  wife,  leaves  your  abode,  and  that  you  live  forever  in  her 
heart.  Adieu,  Albert!  As  you  said,  death  has  intervened  and  appar- 
ently separated  us,  only  to  again  unite  us  in  eternity.  Confiding  in  the 
faith  you  taught  me,  certain  that  you  have  deserved  the  blessing  and 
the  benediction  of  Cod,  I shed  no  tears  for  you;  and  cannot  think  of 
you  under  the  false  and  impious  image  of  death.  Albert,  you  were 
right  in  saying  that 4 Death  is  not’ — I feel  the  truth  in  my  heart.” 

As  Consuelo  spoke,  the  curtains,  which  were  at  the  back  of  the 
catafaco,  became  visibly  agitated,  and  opening,  at  once  exhibited  Zden- 
ko’s  pale  face.  She  was  frightened  at  first,  having  always  looked  upon 
him  as  her  mortal  enemy.  There  was,  however,  in  his  face  such  an 
expression  of  gentleness,  that  when  he  reached  out  his  rough  hand, 
she  could  not  but  clasp  it. 

44  Let  us  swear  peace  ove^his  coffin,  my  poor  child,”  said  he  with  a 
smile ; 44  you  are  a real  daughter  of  God,  and  Albert  is  satisfied  with 
you.  Go  I now  he  is  happy  and  sleeps  kindly.  I have  forgiven  him, 
you  see,  and  come  back  as  soon  as  I saw  he  was  asleep— now  I will 
not  leave  him.  To-morrow  I will  take  him  again  to  the  cavern,  and 
we  will  talk  of  Consuelo.  . Consuelo  de  mi  alma , go  to  sleep,  my  child 
— Albert  is  not  alone.  Zdenko  is,  and  always  will  be  with  him.  He 
is  happy  with  his  friend — misfortune  is  borne  away,  evil  is  destroyed, 
and  death  is  overcome.  The  Sirice-blessed  day  is  come.  4 Let  the  one 
who  has  been  injured,  salute  you.’  ” 

Consuelo  could  bear  no  longer  the  infrantic  joy  of  the  poor  mad- 
man. She  bade  him  an  affectionate  farewell,  and  when  she  opened 
the  door  of  the  room  let  Cynabre  rush  to  his  old  friend,  who  had  call- 
ed and  whistled  for  him. 

“ Come,  Cynabre — I will  conceal  you  under  your  master’s  bed,” 
said  Zdenko  caressingly,  as  if  it  had  been  his  child.  “ Come,  Cynabre, 
here  all  three  of  us  are,  and  we  will  never  part  again.” 

Consuelo  went  to  awaken  Porpora.  She  then  went  on  tiptoe  into 
the  room  of  Count  Christian,  and  passed  between  his  bed  and  Wen- 
ceslawa. 

44  Is  it  you,  my  daughter?  ” said  the  old  man,  without  any  exhibi- 
tion of  surprise ; 44 1 am  glad  to  see  you.  Do  not  awaken  my  sister^ 
ibr  she  is  sound  asleep,  thank  God ! Go,  sleep  yoursalt  I am  calm, 
Mj  son  Is  saved,  and  ^ well” 


O^SUELO. 


527 


Ctaunaelo  kl*od  his  white  hair,  his  wrinkled  hands,  and  hid  the 
iMun.  which  might  perhaps  hare  destroyed  his  illusion.  She  dared 
not  kiss  Wenceslawa,  who,  for  the  first  time  in  three  weexs,  slept 
soundly. 

“ God  has  terminated  grief,”  said  she,  "by  its  very  excess:  may 
they  long  be  weighed  down  by  the  heathfdl  burden  of  fatigue ! ” 

A half  hour  afterwards  Consuelo,  the  heart  of  whom  was  crushed 
at  the  idea  of  leaving  the  noble-hearted  old  man — passed,  with  Poi> 
pora,  through  the  portcullis  of  the  Giants’  Castle,  without  even  re* 
membering  that  the  vast  mansion,  the  grates  and  bars  of  which  had 
enclosed  so  much  suffering  and  so  much  wealth — had  become  the 
property  of  the  Countess  of  Rudolstadt. 


Those  of  our  readers  who  are  too  wearied  from  having  followed 
Consueb  through  all  her  dangers  and  perils,  now  may  rest  Those 
who  yet  have  courage  to  venture  farther — in  another  romance  Just  is- 
sued, in  uniform  style  to  this  volume,  entitled  M The  Countess  op 
Rudolstadt,” — will  read  the  story  of  the  sequel  of  her  wanderings, 
aad  of  what  became  of  Count  Albert  after  his  death. 


«S8 


\ • ' , 


A. 


